Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: After a hard night's celebrating at the cast and crew party for the end of filming Season One of Game of Thrones, Sean wakes up to discover he's not in Kansas anymore.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

If Lord Jonos' observation was correct they still had a full day, more likely two, before this hodgepodge of a medieval army passed out of the Riverlands and into the Crownlands. Though he'd often portrayed great leaders of men, warlords even, the actor had never actually managed much of anything beyond his career; let alone twenty thousand some odd homicidal maniacs bent on revenge. Luckily he was a wide ranging reader and had a wealth of seemingly relevant stage and film roles to draw upon. So he well remembered that George had had Rob, his not son, ride with a different lord each day on his long march from Winterfell, down the Neck, over the Twins, and on to Riverrun. A lesson Sean smartly imitated, even if today's choice, the head of House Bracken, was proving to be an egotistical blowhard. Regardless, whenever an outrider, a messenger, or an aide from not Ned's new model army staff would ride up with news or a question, the actor would politely ask his noble guest's opinion of the situation and then more likely than not order Lord Bracken's suggestion to be implemented.

The trick seemed to work. While the senior lords had their share of quirks and foibles, invariably including an inflated sense of ego that would make a Hollywood star appear a mere piker in comparison, they did know their shit when it came to the art of war. Thus, while the actor benefited from keeping his army moving relentless forward, his noble banners happily observed that not only did the inestimable Lord of Winterfell listen to their advice, but he valued and followed it too. Sean did worry a bit that one of the touchy bastards might someday think to take advantage of his approach. For that very reason he kept a wary eye in particular on that traitorous snake Roose Bolton; however, in the main he trusted to his well-practiced icy look and the steely reputation of his predecessor in this role, the late Eddard Stark, to keep the unruly, selfish, bickering lords of the North and the Riverlands in line.

At the moment, the brown haired and eyed Lord Bracken was regaling for the fifth time that hour yet another outrage perpetrated on his House in the distant, but still very present to him, past by his untrustworthy, honorless neighbors, the Blackwoods. Beyond the normal talk of horses, swords, and battles, the morning's ride down the kingsroad showed Sean's thick shouldered companion to have a limited range of interests beyond disparaging the black flock of Raventree Hall. First, and perhaps burning even more hotly than his hate for the Blackwoods, was the man's desire for revenge against the Lannisters for the sacking of his seat at Stone Hedge. The actor had pleasantly discovered in the ten days since his new army first combined at Darry that those Riverland Lords, honor loving knights all, whose castles had fallen to or been burned out by the Westerlanders did not begrudge him his sin in the defeat of the Old Lion by the Green Fork; and this fact held true with Jonos Bracken as well.

The second and third acts of the man's conversational repertoire played straight to the hearts of the Stark family. Though evidently not present at the inn when Lady Stark captured the Imp, Lord Jonos took great pride in expounding, frequently, on how three of his faithful men-at-arms had willingly sacrificed their lives to see his liege's daughter, and her Lannister abomination of a prisoner, to the safety of the Vale. Likewise, this father, afflicted with the Westerosi curse of having only true daughters, took great pleasure in observing that one of his many daughters, usually the second one, Jayne, would make a wonderful wife for the Starks' poor, crippled by the Lannisters son, Bran.

Luckily for Sean, he had another companion on this day, on every day's ride. A companion well attuned to the thoughts, traditions, and histories of Riverland lords; a ravishing, auburn haired beauty who at a young age had taken on the responsibilities of the mistress of Riverrun: the Lady Catelyn Stark nee Tully, his not wife. She filled the silences with tact and insight when he knew not how to respond to a lord's political maneuverings or testing of his knowledge. The actor knew she must have some niggling doubts and suspicions about him, not Ned; but for now she blindly accepted his fantastically story and glowed like a new bride in the presence of the husband she thought dead.

As Lord Jonos blathered on, Sean noticed Cat ever so slightly slowing up the grey and black mare she rode. Very early in their week together on the kingsroad they'd developed a trick for catching each other's eye without that day's guest noticing, though surely each lord's squire and not Ned's aides riding behind them did. In response to his not wife's cue, the actor pulled lightly back on the reins of his massive war horse, causing the black beast to ease up on its gait. As her sparkling blue eyes came into view behind Bracken's matted brown mane, Sean dropped a very un-Ned like wink. She crinkled her face in amusement at her not husband's antic to the prattle issuing forth from the lord's mouth.

Just then Jonos Bracken started to swivel his head to look at the Lord of Winterfell. Sean put overmuch spur to his horse in response and as the destrier surged forward, the resulting movement and wind blowing open the cloak wrapped around the actor.

"That's as fine a plate as I've ever seen, Lord Stark," Lord Bracken commented, spying the set of armor not Ned wore. "It's unadorned, but it almost shimmers like Valyrian steel," he said with evident envy.

The actor smiled. "It served me well on the Green Fork."

Jonos Bracken nodded sagely in agreement. The defeat of Tywin Lannister was already taking on an air of legend with those unlucky enough to have missed that day beside the Green Fork. "But where be the wolf's head emblazoned on it, Lord Stark? So that your foes may know fear when they see the Lord of Winterfell coming to cross swords with them?"

Sean patted the chest plate absentmindedly. "'Twas a gift ... a gift from the Old Gods," he muttered as his mind began to drift back to _that_ day, _that_ place, when and where he'd received the armor. A present not Ned had worn every day since. "I would not show the Gods of the North disrespect by changing a single thing about it."

* * *

_The final day of filming had ended for the tenth and last episode; and even though his last shot had come the episode before in "Baelor," he'd stuck around Belfast to watch the season wrap up. The crew and cast turned out to be an amazing group of blokes; and only Georgina and a solicitor wished Sean back in London, to sign the paperwork ending their marriage, his fourth. After the final call of 'cut!' he, like the rest, had bolted out of the sound stage at Paint Hall Studio and piled into the vibrantly piss colored pub right next door that David and DB had rented for the cast's goodbye party._

_Inside the vile yellow row house, one of the original waterfront stone buildings not torn down in the Titanic Quarter's rush to redevelop and gentrify for stock brokers and chartered accountants, he'd had a few pints, chatted some with Lena, Aidan, and Rory, and also individually thanked Brian, Daniel, and Alan for their work directing the show. Finding himself in a lull with no one to converse with, he spotted the attractive, thirty something key grip and moved over to say 'hello.' That had gone well enough and they'd soon found a dark corner of the pub to chat in. With a bit of flirting, she'd even pulled up her long black hair to display part of a dragon tattoo after he'd shown her his bit of Middle Earth ink. Things had been about to progress further when Clint, the American born sword master, and Harry, the stunt coordinator, spoiled the mood by intruding, a jumbo sized package between them._

"_You always die," Clint cheerfully blurted, interrupting the hobnobbing couple._

"_Well them's the roles I get mate," he responded through gritted teeth. "A man's got to eat. Besides, I was Zeus just last year. Can't kill a Greek God, now can they?" he asked rhetorically, hoping they'd now go away and leave him to the bird._

"_What are you filming next?" Harry asked with some excitement._

"_Uhm, I think my agent's lined up a mercenary ensemble pic and also a spy thriller; not sure which shoots first."_

"_Nothing more … medieval?" Clint asked equal parts hopeful and despondent._

"_Sorry, no. Don't think so." The pair looked crestfallen at the news. "What's the problem, mates?"_

_It was then that Dalia, he thought her name was Dalia, grew unhappy with being ignored and took her body art to another part of the pub._

"_Well … we made up a present for you. For your next film. Something …." and Clint broke down giggling._

"… _tee-hee, to make sure you make it through … alive for a change," said Harry, finishing up._

_And with that pronouncement they opened their big box._

"_Ha ha arseholes," he barked, looking down at some shiny prop armor; a breast plate and a black plate._

"_No, no, it's not what you think," Clint proclaimed._

"_I know a guy," Harry insisted. "That's real stuff. Steel alloy with tungsten and chromium and moby … mobyled … molybdenum. It'd stop a bullet, serious."_

"_Or a sword," Clint agreed._

_Harry's eyes got big with excitement. "Even a Valyrian sword," he gushed._

"_We went the basic grey so your next prop master can paint it whatever color the shoot needs. Greek, Roman, Viking, whatever," Clint explained._

_Harry tittered, "Who knows, maybe George will write Ned back in before the end of the series."_

_Sean crinkled his face in annoyance; he'd lost his chance at the bird when he didn't put an immediate end to this little show. Well what would he have done with her anyway? Take her back to his hotel? He had an early plan to catch back to Gatwick anyway. Besides, Clint and Harry were alright blokes, just taking their GRRM love and his own doomed Internet reputation a tad too seriously. In fact on set he'd spent many an hour describing to them how Peter's coordinators had run the sword works down in New Zealand. So with no visible discouragement from him, the target of their affection, nothing would satisfy the pair but he put their gift on. Foolishly, he agreed._

_He knew he wasn't the friendlist chap on set, but he didn't want to develop a reputation as some big nob. 'I'm just a lad from Sheffield,' he thought. 'I learned how to weld for Christ's sake,' he told himself as they ensconced him inside the contraption. Then no sooner were the straps tightened and the fitting announced as complete, than Niko, Iain, Rich, and Rory were pestering him, giving him shit. And with every pint thrown back, someone else had to pound on the plate to prove to themselves it wasn't the usual foil wrapped chicken wire found on set. When he finally complained that his ribs were starting to hurt, Clint explained that that was why real knights wore thick doublets beneath their plate._

"_Then where's the rest of my kit?" Sean complained. "The padding? And how about a helmet, leggings, arm guards, gloves?"" he prodded._

_The pair had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry," Harry muttered. "Guess we didn't think of everything."_

_Clint thrust another pint at him. "Hope this'll makes amends for our forgetfulness." Then his face brightened as Sean accepted the mug, "And its medieval pain medicine too!"_

_The actor remembered downing the bitter, foaming medicine, but not much more beyond that._

* * *

A cold wind blew down from the North, of course, swirling up and under his thick grey cloak; cutting through the chain covered gaps in his armor and sending a deathly chill up his back. The Riverlands at least were warmer than the so called late summer weather of the North. The night before they'd departed Darry a white raven had arrived from the Citadel, proclaiming the start of Autumn. Today, the odd frigid northern gust notwithstanding, the temperature felt more like a Christmas holiday he once took in Lisbon or a late October day at home in Sheffield. He looked up at the sky, 'At least the sun's out.' Sean was no longer a young man and he had quickly found that riding inside sodden armor through the rain was not his cup of tea. What he wouldn't have given for a hot cup of tea.

A month earlier, just setting out on this mad adventure, the actor wouldn't have dared try this maneuver, but weeks in the saddle atop mighty chargers and powerful destriers had done wonders for both his equestrian courage and dexterity. He shifted with hardly a conscious thought, adjusting both his wolf cloak and where his plate rested against his torso. The damned American had been correct, properly decked out in a padded doublet and pants, and with experience wearing the contraption, he hardly felt the weight of the armor anymore; well … at least while on a horse he admitted. He knew he'd groan uncomfortably when the time came to dismount at the end of the day. But the shiny grey steel was now like a second skin; though one, grabbing a glance at the vibrant Cat as she smiled politely at some bon mot attempted by Lord Jonos, that he didn't at all mind stripping out of at night.

He started calculating how many hours of travel were left before they needed to make camp for the night. Outriders under the command of the Blackfish were due to return soon with word on whether there was a friendly manor or available holdfast for the army to pitch its tents around. By the length of day light hours, accepting as a premise that George's magic wasn't strong enough to mess with a planet's axial tilt, and using an approximation of an earth like rotation and orbit, he judged the time of year to be a month or so after the winter solstice. The constant movement southward, if only at a horse's pace, made his rough calculations problematic, even while using the latitude of London as a constant for Riverrun. 'Nice tip that, George,' he thought.

He looked forward to reaching King's Landing, and not just for improvement in the weather. Though if his guesstimates at latitudes were correct, he'd be pleased enough with Paris like winter temperatures; even if he prayed for something closer to the Cote d'Azur. The first big hurdle in his plan to save Westeros, and thus himself, had already been cleared, for better or for worse, by the Green Fork. The sooner he dealt with the murderous fucks in the Red Keep the quicker he could confront all the other homicidal crazies and ice zombies lining up to personally rip the actor's handsome head off and shit down his precioius neck. Saving Westeros, and by extension his own life, wasn't going to be easy, but he had a plan. And at least nothing from here on out looked like it would be near as dangerous as what he'd already experienced. A quiet retirement to the ice palace of Winterfell didn't appeal much to Sean, even if he had Cat to keep his bed warm; but it beat dying, hands down.

Sean looked up to the sky for reassurance. Burning brightly … high, high above the clouds floated the Red Comet. Praise the Seven, the Old Gods, and George; that at least had appeared more or less on time, bolstering the wizardry of his all knowing fortune telling amongst his northern host. Too bad the damned slow arsed Riverlanders hadn't arrived at Darry to hear his prediction before the Red Messenger started to blaze a path across the heavens. He sighed. He thought he knew what the omen of blood and Targaryens and dragons meant, but with George, whom before shooting he'd had an hour long private conversation with, you could never really be sure; the tricky bastard. "R + L = J my arse!" he whispered into the wind.

* * *

_Something brushed against him, waking him from a troubled, very odd slumber. Sean slowly, painfully lifted the lids to his eyes. His skull ached, the mother of all hangovers. The weak sunlight of a new day greeted his gritty, tired eyeballs; trickling more than shining in through an old smoky window set into the wall against which he found himself slumped. He pushed a mangy dog, the likely cause of his awakening, away from his leg, where it sniffed curiously. At least it hadn't peed on him. While the lights were off, someone had started a smoky blaze in a fireplace he hadn't remembered seeing the night before. He groaned as he gingerly shifted his sore body, stiff neck, and throbbing head. He desperately needed aspirin, a whole bottle of them. His day was not starting promisingly._

_More movement caught his eye. A few members of the crew, clearly foolish enough to have drunk as much as he had, were still lingering about the pub. All of them had apparently gotten into the spirit of things started by Harry and Cling and dressed up as if they were part of the cast still on set. Sean looked down at his wrist to see what time it was, he did have a flight to catch out of Belfast International. "Bugger," he swore disgustedly; someone had nicked his watch while he was passed out. "What time is it?" he called out. A couple of faces in the draft room turned to look at him, but said nothing in response to his questions. Surprisingly the actor didn't recognize any of them, he was usually good remembering faces._

_Frustrated, he slowly dragged himself upright, his armor weighing him down; and then headed for the door. Coming closer to the surly pub patrons he noticed how rank and dirty they were, literally wearing rags. "Taking the whole bloody peasant thing a bit far, mate," he muttered to one in passing. Reaching the door, he felt in his pockets, at least no one had pinched the keys to his rental. It was time to get back to the hotel, shower, change, and check the Internet for the time of his flight. He stepped outside and squinted._

"_What the fuck!" he burst. The sound stages of Paint Hall Studio were missing, replaced by a massive castle that looked like Caernarfon or Harlech. The multistory apartments and stores of the Titanic Quarter were gone; in their place stood a thick medieval wall and buildings more appropriate for a scenic Bavarian village minus the men in leiderhosen. Though every single person walking down the cobblestone street beside the docks wore clothing fit for a RenFair or SCA event; sailors, wenches, merchants, city watchmen, fishermen, knickknack traders, and food sellers. The waters of the Lough appeared transformed, now populated by an immense rock, sailing ships, and galleys instead of with the familiar sight of barges, container ships, and power boats. What's more, the harsh unexpected smells of smoke and urine, livestock and shit mingled with the scent of fish and sea air in his nostrils instead of the expected boat and car exhaust. The world spun. He snapped his head back around to look at the yellow pub, the only god damned thing that looked the same as before._

_Two hard bitten greying men, long spears resting on the shoulders of their well-worn surcoats sporting a faded green merman, stopped, eyes a goggle at him. "My lord," they said in unison and sketched him quick bows._

"_What?" he asked with wild confusion._

"_May we help you, my lord?" one chirped uncertainly._

"_Who … who am I?" he stuttered._

"_My lord?" the other guardsman posed._

"_Who am I?!" he demanded louder, near ranting._

_They looked confused. "L-l-l-lord Stark, my lord," the first choked out._

_His stomach heaved. It couldn't be. This was a sick joke. Rory or Niko was putting them up to it. "Where am I?"_

"_White Harbor, my lord," they echoed each other_

_With those words everything weirdly clicked in the actor's brain; the sights, sounds, and smells all made perverted sense. He knew where he was. And at that, Sean Bean, master of film and stage, portrayer of more than a score of hard, violent men, lost all control and wet his pants._

* * *

"Lord Stark?" a gravelly bass rumbled.

"My Lord? My Lord, scouts are returning," a sweet voice prodded.

Sean drew himself out of his memories, what triggered the start of this crusade … this madness. It was surprisingly easy to let the constant, repetitive four beats of his charger's walking gait hypnotize him, take him back to that other, saner world. "My pardon, Lord Jonos, my thoughts were a thousand leagues away," not Ned apologized. 'Even farther, actually.'

"'Tis a long road you and your banners have ridden from the North, my Lord. And a tiring one, I dare say; but at the end of it lies the last of the Lannisters, and justice," the vengeful lord of House Bracken intoned with deadly seriousness. "Don't you agree, Lady Stark?"

Not Michelle smiled politely addressing him. "This day and every day I pray the Seven bring me closer to my daughters' safe return, Lord Bracken. For that, so long as my lord husband were by my side," and here her smile blossomed, "I would travel to the ends of Westeros and challenge the Others themselves. Justice and the Lannisters I will leave to you and the other lords."

"You have a lady wife full of wisdom, Lord Stark," Jonos Bracken proclaimed with unexpected smarm. "I can well see why my three men-at-arms so readily took up arms on her noble behalf."

'Give it a rest,' Sean thought, trying to keep his face icy calm and restrain his eyes from rolling.

"I remember when I first accepted Kurkelet into my service, a piggish man I admit, but I recall thinking at the time he had steady eyes. I always say to judge a man …"

"Will they have word of Arya, do you think?" Cat cut in.

The actor sighed softly. He'd told his not wife back at Darry that her youngest daughter was hiding as a boy in a Night Watch caravan heading north and then promised her they would soon be reunited. To continue passing himself off as Ned Stark, not Ned needed not Michelle's full and unwitting support; so the actor had to keep her happy and charmed. "Quite likely, my Lady. But if not today, then tomorrow. Every day brings us closer to our daughter," he reassured her, while trying hard not to remember his own three daughters now lost forever to him.

Lady Stark unsuccessfully tried to hide the frown of disappointment that curled her lips.

Watching her, Sean feared the longer his promise went unfilled the less slack she'd cut him for the miscues and slip ups the real Ned would never have made to her. Despite appearing identical to the Lord of Winterfell, for those who truly knew him, there was likely only so many times he could fall back on his reincarnation by the Old Gods story for not remembering this or that before they became suspicious. Best to use that 'magic' as sparingly as possible.

As not Ned spurred his destrier forward to meet the returning outriders, Sean thought yet again how _this_ was his role of a life time, quite literally; and hopefully a very long life time. At the Green Fork he'd physically and mentally survived his first deadly challenge, if just barely. Knowing the first season's script by heart, having browsed most of the books, and hearing much of the on set speculation about characters and story arcs, the actor figured he could handle all the destructive plot lines interwoven through the very deadly fabric of Westeros. Better to kill than be killed. Though the lingering Arya issue was the most pointed reminder he lacked infallibility; and he did worry how his already bolloxing the story board would come back to bit him in the arse. If he'd learned nothing from the books, as well as from his own annoying Internet meme, it was bad shit happens. Could he ad lib enough to survive the unexpected curves bound to come his way? 'Gods George,' he thought, 'what a fucked up world you created.' He laid a hand on his armor, feeling better, a bit safer, for the steel protecting him from all that the Game of Thrones would undoubtedly throw at him.


	2. Chapter 1

Smell carried. Smell filled the senses. Smell provided the never ending, colorful backdrop to the stage of life. For Sean, Sheffield smelled like home. London had its own odor, strongest right before a hard rain. Paris always carried a lingering waft of baked bread for him. New York held the scent of over boiled mystery meat with just a hint of food cart vendor sweat. Los Angeles left the taste of exhaust, suntan spray, and silicon in his nostrils. The dusty tall curtains and oiled wood floors of the stage smelled different than the chill, often stale air pumped onto a sound stage. The memory of these scents were locked forever in the actor's brain, never, unless by miracle, to be appreciated afresh again. None of them however had prepared him for the olfactory assault of an army at war.

Twenty thousand unwashed men and half as many horses trod down the kingsroad, leaving behind a trail of rancid refuse: endless mounds of excrement, moonscapes of ash, fields of rotting carcasses, oceans of churned up mud, and rivers of ammonia laden urine. Every hamlet, village, and holdfast they passed or camped around at night held the nasty stench of raw sewage and over full middens. Worse, not only did his army manufacture the reek of human death and gangrenous wounds, but it cheerily carried the putrid essence of it with them. Sean's soul shivered as he gazed up at the heads, whose deaths had done little to quench the flames of vengeance burning inside the heart of the lord whom he rode with that day, Rickard Karstark.

While the wild haired, greying Lord Karstark, leader of one of the largest northern contingents fighting for the Direwolf banner, ranted, more than pleaded, for the right to the Kingslayer's miserable life, Sean watched the sunlight catch the few last red hairs of the mad man who'd started this civil war. Morbidly, whoever not Ned rode in front of each day, the Eagles of Seagard, the Unchained Giants of Last Hearth, the Green Dragons of Atranta, or today the Black Suns of Karhold, his aides made sure his 'trophies' rode nearby, propped atop the sharp tips of spears, pikes, and lances. Large clumps had fallen out of what the bald Lord of Casterly Rock had to offer, but enough remained to give the rotting flesh of his skull an appropriate crimson Lannister sheen. It was the eyes; however, well eye sockets really, that caught the actor's attention. Something about the vacant, maggot filled space drew Sean back to the first time those imperious and still whole eyes had arrogantly gazed upon him with contempt.

* * *

_Tywin Lannister stared suspiciously, looking up and down at the form of the man he thought of as Ned Stark, or more likely as Lord Stark's imposter. 'God,' Sean thought, 'he really looks like Charles. Well … if Charles was bald … and sported mutton chops instead of a close cropped beard.'_

_The Lord Paramount, in charge of the Westerlands army waiting impatiently at the bottom of the long slope, finally ended his ominous glower and spoke with icy heat. "Lords Bolton, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Glover, what childish game do you play at, bringing before me this … mummer? Do you mean to scare me with the image of a ghost? Or just delay me? Now where is the boy, Robb? I will speak to the one who truly leads you?"_

_The four Northern lords, brutal killers a more apt description, stayed silent. He'd had the devil's own time convincing them and the other lordlings to believe he was Ned. But they'd come around in the end, especially after he pitched them the Green Fork strategy he remembered some of the crew talking about back on the set. Appreciating how their silence must irk the Lannister, Sean smiled coolly, putting on his sternest Ned face. "No ruse. No mummer's show, Lord Tywin. A fort night ago Ilyn Payne, at the command of your grandson, beheaded me in the presence of my own daughters. But the Old Gods, the gods of ice and the weirwood, were not done with me. They returned me to the North. Charging me to put an end to the madness your son and daughter started."_

"_Lord Tyrion had nothing to do with your son's … with the attack on Bran Stark and Lady Catelyn," not Charles lap dog, his brother Kevan, snapped._

"_No, he didn't," Sean agreed calmly._

_Several eyebrows rose in surprise at the unexpected pronouncement._

"_Which is why I asked you to bring him to the parley," he said into the shocked silence. Sean turned to face the so called Imp. Uglier than Peter and with actual mismatched eyes; but like Peter, an aura of sorts, some indefinable charisma, bubbled out of him. "My apologies Lord Tyrion for the ordeal you suffered at the hands of my lady wife and my goodsister, the Lady Lysa Arryn._

_Not Peter bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the words, but kept his face stoic, not revealing one way or the other what he thought of the offered words._

_For a moment, looking for the first time at real life versions of George's characters, Sean pondered how similar Catelyn might be to Michelle and Robb to Rich. "I know a Lannister always pays his debt, my lord, so perhaps it may help you to know that both the Lady Catelyn and myself were tricked into thinking you owned the dragonbone knife used to attack my son. Tricked by the aptly named Littlefinger."_

_Curiosity and distrust both shone in the halfman's eyes._

_Only icy disdain however poured out of Tywin Lannister's. "Baelish? What does that ill-bred toad have to do with this? You mentioned my daughter, the Queen. What of her?" he demanded._

"_Patience, Lord Lannister," Sean declared, not taking his eyes off not Peter. "Littlefinger declared you won the dagger, Lord Tyrion, when you bet against your brother in a tourney. But you never bet against Ser Jaime, do you?"_

"_No," replied the Imp fiercely. "And I told Lady Catelyn that, more times than I'd care to remember."_

"_And I wished she'd listened to you," the actor answered sincerely._

"_If your tale holds a sliver of truth, then why did Baelish lie? And who's dagger was it?" not Charles demanded in a tone resounding of natural command and superiority._

_It took all of Sean's acting skills not to promptly bend to the other man's will. He paused and forced himself to exude an icy, aristocratic demeanor that would have made Ken or Ian proud. "To sow chaos, Lord Twyin. To pit the Great Houses against each other. To make his own services more appreciated, more valued, so that he might rise even higher than Master of Coin. But mostly, to distract my investigation of his own vile crime."_

_Not Charles snorted softly, refusing to contemplate how he could have been unwittingly maneuvered by the likes of the Master of Coin._

"_And what would that be?" Lord Kevan Lannister asked dubiously._

"_The murder of Jon Arryn."_

_Small gasps and mutterings of "what?" and "why?" greeted this pronouncement._

"_Oh it gets better," Sean continued, trying to put a Ned like chill in his voice. "Littlefinger plotted the Hand's death with his lover ..." He paused again, to artfully let the tension rise. "… Lysa Arryn."_

_Scoffs of disbelief met this proclamation._

_A sneer crossed Tywin Lannister's face. "You seek to accuse Lady Arryn of the murder of her own husband? It seems you are the one who seeks to sow chaos and confusion with your mummer's stories," Tywin Lannister tugged on his reins and stated. "I will take my leave of you and soon return with my …"_

"_No!" burst out not Peter. "Please wait, father … it … it makes sense. I've … been around King's Landing. Heard Littlefinger's boasts. Seen, at court, how he … how he acted around the Arryns. And I was almost killed by Lysa Arryn's madness. '_Make the little man fly_,' her wretched child said to her. Lord Stark's words have the ring of truth about them."_

_The power and beauty of the imp's voice paled in comparison to actual Peter's. Perhaps why Lord Twyin met his son's words with withering skepticism, "Then was it Baelish too who magically arranged for the dagger to attack Lady Stark?"_

"_No," Sean interrupted firmly. "The blade belonged to Robert."_

_More gasps. That statement truly did capture not Charles attention._

_Sean continued, "Who but a King would have such a collection of dragonbone daggers that when one went missing not a soul noticed?"_

"_Then who?" asked an intrigued Tyrion._

"_Joffrey. The boy's the second coming of Aerys the Mad. And I'm not just saying that because he cut my head off," Sean said with the hint of a smirk._

_Not Charles eyes narrowed dangerously at the implication of his kin. "Why?"_

_He shrugged. "You'll have to ask him. Perhaps he wanted to finish the work his parents started when they threw Bran out of the tower window in Winterfell."_

_Blank and confused looks met his statement, all except for Tyrion._

_Sean's smirk became obvious. "Yes, you're wondering why I said 'parents.' I've already indicated the blade was Robert's. Well that morning he was out hunting with me in the Wolfswood."_

_Not Charles sensing he wasn't going to like what came next, but caught up in the web of the story leaned forward, placing a threatening hand on the pommel of his sword. "Go on," he dared._

"_A father, such a tricky word. Who really, other than the mother, knows the true sire of her progeny? You yourself have trouble acknowledging Tyrion as your own offspring, don't you Lord Lannister?" he asked, pushing the verbal dagger deep. "Spent many a troubled night suspecting Joanna cheated on you."_

_Tywin Lannister said nothing. He clasped the pommel in a bone breaking grip, grinding his teeth in exactly the way Sean imagined Stannis Baratheon did._

"_On that day in Winterfell, Cersei stayed behind. She stayed behind so she could fuck her lover in secret. But Bran, an excellent climber, accidentally stumbled upon them in the deserted tower; and Cersei' lover, her brother Jaime, made my son a cripple for it," he snarled._

"_No." choked Tywin Lannister. He partly pulled his sword from the scabbard before his control reasserted itself, ensuring the sanctity of the parley wasn't broken. "Enough of you and your charade. You will pay for these … lies," he whispered. "Come!"_

_And off the small party of Westerland lords trotted, heading back to the mass of knights, men-at-arms, and archers waiting them at the bottom of the hill._

"_He'll come at us hard, my Lord," Roose Bolton hissed in his quiet, reptilian voice._

"_All the way to the Twins, I hope," Sean answered. "Tywin Lannister's the most vicious, but also at his most stupid, when it comes to slights against his house."_

"_Then lets pray the stupid rage outweighs the clever anger, my Lord," Robett Glover responded._

"_Yes," not Ned laughed, trying to hide his nervousness at having provoked the lion. "And in the meantime, if the Old Gods words to me were true, Robb should right now be capturing the Kingslayer and freeing Riverrun. When the North is through with them, the Lannisters will wish the Others had taken them."_

* * *

"Others take the Kingslayer!" Rickard Karstark swore, concluding his protracted vow for vengeance at the killer of two of his three sons.

"No, cousin, you will have that chance first, my word on it," not Ned promised. 'The arrogant prick should be long dead before the ice zombies ever get near the Wall.' "For now, Jaime Lannister has more value alive than dead; which is why I've brought him with us. There are more dangers to the Seven Kingdoms, to the North, than just the Lannisters, Lord Rickard. The Kingslayer shall be the bait to draw these hidden snakes out of the Red Keep and into the open, where we may safely dispatch them. Then, and only then, will you have my permission to seek your justice. But until then, I will hear no more about this, do you understand, cousin?"

The shaggy haired man bit his lip, but kept his tongue, if barely. He looked quite displeased.

"Have you arranged a marriage yet for your Alys, Lord Rickard?" not Michelle asked politely after a few minutes of silence, looking to move the conversation onto a more pleasant topic. Alas it was not meant to be.

The Lord of Karhold scowled again. "The dear girl had a secret engagement, thought I'd never find out about it, silly little chit. Nothing happens in my hold without me hearing of it."

"Not with anyone inappropriate, I hope," Cat said with sincere concern, for both Lord Rickard's tone and the possible impropriety of the situation.

"Nay, I'd have been proud to call him my goodson," Rickard Karstark ground out. "Been keeping an eye on him, 'til recently; a fine lad, more's the pity."

Fearing the worst, Cat asked softly, "Who was the poor boy?"

"Daryn Hornwood," he said bitterly.

"Oh," his not wife gasped, well remembering both Lord Halys' son, dead at the Whispering Wood, and whose sword took his young life.

'Great,' the actor said to himself sarcastically. 'Another victim we can chalk up to the Kingslayer.'

A sly glint suddenly snuck into Lord Karstark's eye. "I suppose the betrothal between the Lady Sansa and Joffrey Waters is no good no more. My boy Harrion, like Alys, is not betrothed to anyone either …"

Even in death, through the shadows cast by his evil progeny, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West, still mocked Sean's plans to save Westeros. 'God damn it George, what else don't I know about your shitten little world? It fucking stinks,' the actor cursed. And the stench would only grow, the cesspool of King's Landing was only a few more days march away.


	3. Chapter 2

Sean felt Cat's fingers run lightly down his hairy chest.

"You've changed, Ned," she exhaled softly in his ear. Her sweaty, naked body pressed tight against him.

He captured her hand, nibbling at the delicate finger tips before plastering a wet kiss on her palm, right over her horrible, still livid scar; delaying the moment when he had to respond. 'Why do birds always want to talk afterward?' he wondered. The actor talked for a living, so he clearly didn't have a problem with emoting or communicating. He sighed softly to himself, admitting the lie of it; four failed marriages maybe, slightly, indicated he did have a little problem 'communicating'. 'But I'm the top cock of this arse over tit world,' he complained to himself. 'Can't she just be happy I'm paying attention to her and shut up about it?' He stopped whining and searched for the best response. Option A, to keep leveraging 'the miracle of the Old Gods,' as he called it? Option B, to jolly her out of whatever mood she was in? Option C, to actually tell her the truth? Certainly not! When in doubt, stay in character he decided. "Yes," he answered; starting off with the minimalist Ned approach, which also happened to be closer to Sean's true self than he cared to admit. Then the actor implemented Option B and bent his head to nuzzle the soft skin on the nape of her exceedingly lovely neck.

In response, she rolled on top of him, resting her delightfully full breasts on his bare skin. In the dark, illuminated by only what glow of the Red Comet slipped in through the cracks of the tent walls, he caught the barest flicker from the whites of her eyes. She was staring at him, intently. He said nothing in response to her wordless search of his face, just slid an appropriately tender look on to his mug while enjoying the contact with her nubile body.

"You're … somehow … not so hard a man to the world; more solicitous of me in some unlikely ways, yet strangely … more distant, Ned," Catelyn stated, her tone a perplexed, but not unpleasant one. "Won't you let me in?" she whispered plaintively.

'She's right clever alright,' he thought ruefully. 'Can't easily fool a wife.' Noting the thickness returning to his already well-used member, now trapped against her mons, Sean flashed his best boyish grin. "I beg to differ my sweet lady. I appear to be quite hard, and drawing closer and closer to you."

She giggled at his quip. Taking that as his cue, he swept his arms around her, drawing her in for a conversation ending kiss … and most likely something even more intimate.

* * *

"_Ned!" the woman on the gang plank burst out with total disregard for propriety upon spying him by the edge of the bank._

_The gorgeous red head throwing decorum to the wind to barrel straight down at him could be none other than Catelyn, Cat, his not wife, the not Michelle. She appeared a bit younger than Michelle's mid-forties, probably late thirties he guessed. Michelle was a fine looking bird, but this. This! 'Wow!' he thought. In the split second left him, he wondered for the umpteenth time how exactly he truly appeared to these people, to her. Himself, the 'Show Ned'? George's 'Book Ned'? Some amalgam of the two? What? It made no sense that everyone mistook him for the Lord of Winterfell. But luckily for him they did. All he knew for sure about his appearance was that his two tattoos, '100% Blades' for Sheffield United and the elven '9' for the Fellowship, now just looked like oddly shaped scars on his arm and shoulder._

_And then the amazing creature leapt straight into his arms; wrapping her legs around his waist, crying, laughing, and smothering him in kisses seemingly all at once._

'_Yes, decorum is definitely out the window!' He eagerly returned her embrace, tasting lips of honey and the promise of sin._

_Almost immediately a mighty cheer went up from the hundreds of Northerners sharing the shore of the Red Fork with them. The cacophony of raucous whoops, wolf whistles, and ribald jokes finally seemed to penetrate Catelyn's wildly spinning brain and she stopped mid kiss; letting go of not Ned's lower lip and turning a shade of red from embarrassment. She unclenched her legs and started to slide off him._

"_Not so fast," Sean chortled, sweeping an arm under her saucy bum; holding her fast to him so he could plant one last deep, wet, passionate kiss on this amazing auburn tressed goddess, before finally releasing her._

"_My lord, I … I …" she stuttered softly from confusion and pleasure._

"_You are my wife, my lady love," he answered huskily, reaching up a hand to gently caress her cheek, neck, and flowing curls. "And have suffered a lifetime's worth of tragedies on my behalf. No one begrudges you a little joy, Cat." He smiled. "Me least of all."_

_She tilted her neck to look up at him with utter adoration. Her eyes glistened with tears of happiness. Then she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest._

_He returned the hug. When he felt her breath return to something like normal, he bent down and whispered in her ear, "How's Robb?"_

_Cat's head snapped back, her forehead almost clipping his chin. "Oh Ned, he's fine, fine. You'll be so proud. He's become a man grown now; just like his father," she said with fierce pride. Then just as suddenly doubt and fear shattered her happiness, smashing the armor of her composure. "Sansa? Arya?" she squeaked._

_He dropped a duly concerned look on his face. "Sansa's in King's Landing. She's been mostly well treated. But when … the Lannisters," and he'd had to bite back what he, not Ned, really wanted to call those sick bastards, "… when they hear of the twin defeats of the Kingslayer and the Old Lion, they'll have her beaten and whipped, or worse."_

_Catelyn unleashed a single heartrending sob. She understood what 'worse' could encompass. "And Arya?"_

"_She escaped the city in a caravan of recruits for the Wall."_

_Not Michelle looked confused. "With you?"_

_Not Ned shook his head no._

"_Is she here with you?" she asked hopefully._

_He shook his head no again._

"_Then how? How do you know?"_

_He put on his kindest, most sincere face. "It's a very long story, Cat. You'll scarcely believe a word of it when I tell you the whole tale. But please, have faith in this as you do in the love I hold for our daughters; the Old Gods, in saving me, sent visions of the past, the present, and even the future. The caravan of black brothers is heading north on the kingsroad, but is being pursued by gold cloaks. I've sent what riders I could spare in search of them. God … Gods willing, she will be returned to us."_

_Catelyn nodded her understanding. "And what hope is there for Sansa?"_

"_Some. The Lannisters are a broken force. While shattered bands of them still roam the Riverlands, acting no better than brigands as they try to slink back home, there is no organized force of them between here and King's Landing. You must send word to Robb and your brother to bring as many of their banners here as fast they can. If the message comes from you, they'll believe, truly believe, the news that I've returned and triumphed over the Old Lion. Once our armies are combined, we march and take back Sansa."_

_She clutched at him, hope growing as she digested her husband's words._

_He smiled knowingly, appreciating the irony of his next GRRM plot wrecking statement. "And you'll tell Robb and Edmure that I wish them to bring the Kingslayer. You captured him at the Whispering Wood, didn't you?"_

_Not Michelle gasped, hope now soaring. "You'll trade him for Sansa?" she asked, husky with emotion._

_Ice filled his eyes and voice. "Her and a few other rats too. Cersei won't be able to resist the bait."_

"_Then can we all go home, Ned?" Cat begged._

_Not Ned shook his head no. "Stannis must first be set upon the Iron Throne and Lord Renly dealt with. The foolish boy has married Mace Tyrell's daughter and proclaimed himself king."_

_His not wife began to look sheepish and started muttering something under her breath._

_Sean laughed, guessing the reason for her sudden consternation. "I know already, my lady wife; it's the Old Gods' gift you see. That damned ugly Greatjon went and proclaimed Robb the King of the North, didn't he?"_

_Catelyn's eyes widened in amazement._

_Not Ned reveled in playing the Game of Thrones with house money. "Don't worry luv. How could Robb become King when his dear old da still breaths? Stannis won't like it when he hears what happened. But since we'll be handing him his crown, he can't complain too much, can he?"_

_Catelyn shook her head no, agreeing with her husband._

"_Besides, Robb will prove his worth to Stannis. Once that stubborn man's King, the bigger problem will be keeping him on the Iron Throne against the combined might of Highgarden and Storm's End." 'And that's still just the start of the madness. Thanks a whole fucking lot, George,' Sean thought._

_Not Michelle steadied herself at the avalanche of news, she was the daughter of a Lord Paramount and the wife of another Lord Paramount. With hope for her family renewed, she could face the two other dictates of the Tully motto: Duty and Honor. "My lord husband, I have a letter to write. Do you have any ravens that I might send a message back to Riverrun?"_

"_We still have a few left in one cage, I got them from the Twins. Oh that reminds me, you better let Robb know to be prepared for a wedding when he gets here," not Ned announced._

"_What?!" Catelyn gasped._

"_Yes, I rewrote the terms of your bargain with the late Lord Frey," the actor proclaimed._

"Yes, yes. Oh, Ned. Oh, Ned. Oooooooooooooooooh," Catelyn moaned, thrashing about in the throes of another orgasm.

* * *

He sped up his pace, the urgency to match her explosion almost too much for him to bear. The fact she called him another's name didn't bother him in the least, amused him even; this was taking dedication to a role places he'd never before dreamed. Very quickly not Ned's eyelids fluttered. His toes curled. "oooooophhhhhh," he rumbled, spending inside her until his seed leaked out onto the downy, natural red hair surrounding her entrance.

Despite more than a score of intimate encounters with her, the next part was always a difficult judgment call on how exactly to handle it, all the more so since Cat had memories of what the real Ned would have done. It was the age old question of how long to remain inside before withdrawing. He waited a bit, she never minded his weight on her; of course most women never had. When he felt himself start to shrink, flesh tugging lightly against flesh as his cock naturally started to retract itself, he made his move and started to shift off her.

"No," his not wife called out sleepily, happily. "Stay in me Ned."

He stifled a sigh and stayed in place. He wasn't at all tired and with nothing to do but wait, he focused on his success at distracting her. 'If the only way to dodge pesky questions from this'un is to keep shagging her brains out, I'll die a happy man,' Sean thought.

As she drifted off to sleep beneath him, not Ned worked in his head on the script for the next day in his head; it promised to be a momentous one, as they were likely to at last reach King's Landing. However, there one was one character, who through Sean's own poor plotting, the actor felt unhappily compelled to include in the scene. During the almost four weeks his army had been marching from Darry, the day's scripting for act one had become routine. Meet with his new model army staff for any interesting tidbits that had arisen over the night. Pass along any last minute instructions before the scouts headed out. Deliver the order of that day's march. And lastly, choose which lord he would grace with his and Cat's presence, remembering to alternate each day between Northerner and Riverlander; both sides being obsessively touchy about their warlord showing any sign of preference for one over the other. Doing such, he'd ridden with almost every significant lord once; even accompanied Robb and his Alexander the Great like Band of Companions at the front of the Winterfell contingent, daring to do so twice. But there was no way around who he must accompany next. Not Ned had snubbed the leech loving, traitorous bastard long enough. Sean on the morrow would ride beneath the banner of the Red Flayed Man; gritting his teeth to be courteous to Roose Bolton. His flesh crawled at the idea. The pale man, and his psychopath bastard too, couldn't die soon enough to suit the actor.


	4. Chapter 3 - Catelyn (I)

**Catelyn (I)**

She tingled. That was the first thing Cat noticed when she awoke. Every pore in her body screamed with life and renewed vigor. She slowly turned her head to look at the still sleeping man beside her, the font for the hope and joy beating again within her heart after the long cold winter of her despair. She listened to his soft snores and watched the slow rise and fall of the thick warm pelts under which he snuggled, as if this autumn had learned how to put a chill in a Stark. He was and he wasn't the stranger she'd married seventeen years earlier; of this paradox she was certain. Her husband had always had two dominant sides: the Lord of Winterfell and simply Ned. Both were unfailing polite, honorable, and dutiful, but two vastly different personalities presented in public and in private. And despite a long and happy marriage, there were places within 'simply Ned' she'd never understood; places she'd long ago forced herself to accept that he would never share, whether it was because he was a man, a northerner, or a Stark. Yet since his return, she'd discovered her old knowledge of his ways did not fully match with the new man. There was less of a wall between his two natural halves, but within each one, new barriers had arisen.

Ned rolled over to rest against her, to touch her warmth; a smile caressing away the tight look he kept on his face even in sleep. She took pleasure in the heat he brought to her and remembered the heat he brought to her loins last night. To her delight, contrary to the rumors a young lady might hear whispered about by sour old wives and frumpy spinsters, she'd found bedding with her husband enjoyable and not a task to be dreaded. Certainly the consummation of their marriage had been about the conclusion of an alliance and not at all about love; but over time love had grown and with it their shared physical passion. She felt herself moistening as her body relived many of their torrid couplings over the past five weeks. That too was different, much different than before; he craved her with a desperation she'd never seen. And the things he now did with his fingers and tongue ... "oh," Cat gasped as she reached a hand down between her thighs to rub that spot.

Ned stirred at the slight movement and she stopped her furtive self-exploration. After the first few mind numbing explosions in the early days of their reunion, when her thoughts cooled in the light of day, paranoia had swept her. 'Where had Ned learned these tricks?' 'What whores had Robert sent to his friend's bed in King's Landing?' 'Does he think me so stupid I won't wonder?' With the difficulties of re-organizing the battered Northern host, gathering supplies, preparing for the arrival of Robb and Edmure's army, and planning the march to free Sansa, she'd bit her tongue; held on to her rampaging jealousy as long as she could bear ... until she couldn't any longer.

* * *

"_Stop."_

"_Hunh?" Ned asked, looking up from where his face hovered over her belly, approaching her downy mons._

"_Stop Ned!" Cat said urgently._

_Ned blinked in surprise, a tinge of frustration clouding his brow and eyes. He sat up, resting on his knees and shins, throbbing cockstand bobbing in the air. "I've stopped, Cat," he said calmly. "What's wrong?"_

_Her face burned with shame and outrage. "Where did you learn that?" she demanded._

_His eyebrows rose. "You don't like it?" he asked in amazement._

"_Neeeeed," Cat complained._

"_What?" he responded, exasperation and confusion showing._

"_You never did 'that' before," she hissed. "Where did you learn 'that'?!" Cat insisted._

_A sheepish grin spread across his face, which he tried to hide by rubbing a too soft for Ned hand across his chin. "I told you, Cat, I'm not the same man I was. The Old Gods …"_

"_Enough of your Old Gods, Ned. Who was she!? What whore did you sneak past Arya and Sansa to fuck when you took a break from being Robert's Hand!?"_

_The grin was no longer on his face, replaced with a stunned glare. "I swear to you Cat, you're the only one in all of Westeros that I've bedded," he said solemnly._

"_Liar," she snapped. "Who bore Jon Snow then?"_

_Something different rolled across her husband's face. For a moment, Cat thought she would at last have that particular truth out of him. Instead, the icy Stark wall fell into place; he stood up and walked out of their bedroom in Darry Castle. Some things about new Ned were not any different than those of old Ned. She didn't see him again until breakfast, where they'd then put on a pleasant enough charade for the lordlings sharing their table. It had been their first fight since … since she couldn't remember when._

* * *

Some things about new Ned were not any different than those of old Ned. She knew him too well to believe he would lie to her face, '_the only one in all of Westeros_.' A surprisingly un-Ned like word play that, so the woman was either dead or living in Essos. His other statement that night had turned out to be true too, for in ways both small and large he really was '_not the same man_.' The half a hundred small scars and nicks picked up over a lifetime of blade work, both at practice and at war, were gone from his body, replaced by two large oddly shaped ones, almost burns, on his shoulder and upper arm. His hands were no longer thickly callused from the daily gripping of Ice and a shield. More grey coarsened through his chest hair and lower down as well. He lacked the physical strength he once did; a long day's ride in full armor leaving him far more tired than it once would have. He moved slower … different, without the swordsman's natural rhythm to his gait.

'_I'll need your strength beside me, Cat; and your knowledge and wisdom too_,' he'd told her that day of their reunion beside the Trident.

That had been very different too. The old Ned would never have told her that. When things were hard, he seldom confided in her; not in any meaningful way. He'd just seek solace in the godswood, looking for answers and strength from those nameless things of wind, earth, and tree. No doubt her husband had come to depend on her management of the household and respected her counsel when she gave it, whether asked or unasked for. What he needed of her was something entirely new, exhilarating and scary; an equal. If the Old Gods really had put his dismembered body back together, they'd done an altogether odd job of it.

* * *

_It had not been a long walk from the banks of the river to large tent over which a giant direwolf banner swung in the breeze. Ned shamelessly held her hand the entire time, briefly relaying to her his tale of waking up in White Harbor, riding like a madman to the Twins, renegotiating her bargain with the Freys, cleverly stealing a march around the Lannisters, and in the end bearding the Old Lion along the Green Fork. So many brutal deaths on both sides, it almost made Robb's victories in the Whispering Wood and outside Riverrun seem child's play by comparison._

"_Greetings, Lady Stark," a soft voice called, barely penetrating the haze of joy surrounding her, to be in the presence again of her beloved Ned; alive and whole._

"_A pleasure, my lady," another voice called. "I pray my brother Wendel helped keep you and your son safe?"_

"_Is it true, Lady Catelyn?" a third person asked with evident despair. "Did Lord Eddard's visions happen? Is my dear boy Daryn dead at the hands of the Kingslayer."_

_Cat quickly remembered who she was, the Lady of Winterfell. First she stepped through the open tent flap and approached where Lord Hornwood stood. She took his large hands in her small ones, sympathy written plain on her face. "Your brave son stood between mine and that Lannister. He died doing his duty, my lord."_

_Tears welled up at the corners of Halys Hornwood's big brown eyes. "I thank you for your kind words, my lady," he choked out._

"_Young Daryn could do no less than his duty for his house, for his liege," Ser Wylis rumbled to his cousin's husband._

"_And Torrhen and Eddard Karstark?" Roose Bolton posed quietly, ignoring Lord Hornwood's grief._

_Catelyn nodded painfully. "Both fell, my lord, defending Robb," she answered, tears now seeping from her own eyes. So many young men, so very full of life, now lay dead and for what? To avenge the crimes of one wretched family? The price was high, too high. She wanted no more death; only to retrieve her daughters and flee with her family back to Winterfell. But she was not so blind or foolish as to think that would not require more blood to accomplish. How many more sons would need to die and wives made widows? But it was not pain or loss or even anger she saw reflected in the Lord of the Dreadfort's milk white eyes at her confirmation of the further deaths amongst Robb's companions, but a sense of satisfaction at the news._

"_Halys," Ned whispered. "Go back to your tent. Rest. Raise a toast in memory of Daryn. When you feel you can, write a letter to your lady wife. A raven will be saved to carry your words to Donella."_

_Lord Hornwood straightened his slumped shoulders and forgot the wetness on his cheeks. "No finer lord or lady in all the realm," he stated, and then marched proudly out of the tent._

"_Lord Bolton, Ser Wylis, if you would attend to your other duties, Lady Stark must also write a letter and send a raven, this one to Riverrun. We must combine our armies and make all speed for King's Landing before the boy Joffrey Waters and his Lannister mother can further destroy the Seven Kingdoms."_

_The two men, one slight, clean shaven, and pale, the other plump, whiskered, and florid, promptly bowed and departed._

"_Joffrey Waters?" Catelyn said with a sly grin. "So that's how you intend to justify backing Stannis Baratheon over Robert's child, by claiming Cersei took a lover. And I thought the Lord Eddard Stark too honorable to stoop to sordid tricks," she teased. "Well with their armies broken, I doubt they'll be able to dispute your claim for long."_

"_Sordid, but true, Cat."_

"_What?"_

"_I confronted Cersei when Robert was on a hunt. Told her I knew the truth; begged her to flee to Essos with the children, for I knew the justice Robert would visit on them when I told him the truth. But then Robert mysteriously died and I was arrested. She knew I'd never agree to her bastard son sitting the Iron Throne."_

"_And then she killed you?"_

_Ned shook his head no. "That was the little bastard's doing. I doubt he even knows who his real father is. Bran learned, and they pushed him out the old tower for it."_

"_Cersei?" Catelyn gasped in pain._

"_And Jaime, the Kingslayer's her lover."_

_The world darkened, Ned caught her before she fell and set her on a stool where he could kneel next to her. "And the assassin? They sent him too?" she rasped._

_Again Ned shook his head no. "Joffrey," he said with visible disgust._

"_But why? You said he doesn't know," she breathlessly complained._

"_The boy's as mad as Aerys. He said he'd give me mercy and then cut off my head. In his deluded mind he probably thought he was being merciful to Bran."_

_Rage replaced the disbelief. Monsters. Her hands clenched into fists. She felt the deep scars crossing her palms. The Lannisters, they were all monsters. No, she couldn't think that. She refused to turn herself into what she hated. She searched for something, anything, to pull herself back from the abyss, keep her heart from turning to stone. "Tell me about Bran and Rickon, what have your Old Gods shown you, Ned?"_

_Her husband looked pensive a moment before smiling. "They're fine. Rickon misses you and Robb terribly; sometimes he acts up. He spends a lot of his time with Shaggydog. And Bran … Bran is doing very well as the Stark in Winterfell; both Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick are quite proud of him. He's learned to ride again … wait … Robb must have told you that. He goes everywhere with Hodor and Summer too, of course." Ned's eyes flickered. "Oh, and Howland Reed's children will come to Winterfell during the Harvest Feast; Meera and Jojen will become great friends with him. He's growing into an exceptionally brave and smart young man. He may prove the greatest Stark since … since Bran the Builder."_

_Sobs began to wrack Catelyn's body. She'd been strong for Robb, giving him her guidance. She'd kept her hope strong that she might once again see husband and her darling daughters. Then the news of Ned's death had hurt her terribly, shattered her hopes, but she'd kept strong for her children, burying her fears and doubts deep, deep inside. Her pack, that silly Stark superstition, was scattered across Westeros. All she wanted was for her pack to be whole again, home, in Winterfell. And now Ned was alive. Her hopes were reborn. But what if Arya couldn't be found? What if that bastard Joffrey showed Sansa his 'mercy'? It was all too much. She couldn't survive having her hopes destroyed again. She couldn't keep it inside any longer._

_As Cat wept, Ned held her. Ned held her a very long time._

"_I must look a fright," she finally muttered._

"_You've never been more beautiful," he whispered back._

_She smiled into the crook of his neck. "I think I have a letter to write."_

"_If you've the strength," Ned answered._

_Her smile widened. She felt safe at last huddled in his arms. "I do."_

_Ned let go of her and raised his hands to gently clasp the sides of her face. His oddly green flecked grey eyes stared deeply into her blue ones. "I'll need your strength beside me, Cat; and your knowledge and wisdom too," he said solemnly._

_She crinkled her face. Butterflies flitted about in her belly. The safe haven of her husband's presence suddenly seemed less secure. "Ned?" she said with worry._

"_There was a price the Old Gods took when they gave me the gifts of life and foresight," he whispered seriously._

"_What?" she warbled, feeling her heart beat nervously._

"_There are things, many things, I no longer remember, Cat: Names, faces, places; even things I've done or said. Much of my life now rests like a faded picture in the back of my mind, giving me only clues about my past. There are things the Lord of Winterfell should know, and I see the surprise in my banners' eyes when I don't remember them. They try to hide it; and, they make allowances for a man returned from the dead. But I would not have them lose respect for me or our House. Can you stay by my side, Cat? Always? And keep me from faltering?" Ned pleaded._

"_Oh Ned!" she cried and threw herself into his arms, plastering him with kisses. Soon his lips met hers, and he held her again, but this time she returned his embrace with a passion. The letter to Riverrun would not be written for a while longer._

* * *

'An altogether odd job of it indeed, but not one without benefits,' Cat thought, staring down at her new Ned. She'd thought on more than one occasion in the last month that perhaps the Old Gods had infused some of poor Brandon's spirit into the remaking of her husband. There was less ice and a bit more fire in his soul, even if he did just express it when angry or between the sleeping blankets. A part of her missed how he was no longer so quietly patient, but she reveled in the new heat he brought to their beddings. At times she guiltily wondered if would have experienced this level of pleasure all along if Brandon had lived to wed her.

Outside the tent the first stirrings of the camp roused her from her shameful musings. Anticipation started to course through her; today she would again glimpse King's Landing, where her child waited as a hostage. This time she boldly came with the might of the Riverlands and the North at her back, not skulking like a spy in the night. And were the Seven merciful as she prayed and Sansa delivered to them, then, then they could return home.

For the moment she forced her hopes and dreams back into that guarded place. Ned needed her. She must prepare herself. Today they would ride under the Flayed Man with Roose Bolton. Not her favorite among Ned's banners, but a coldly practical and clever lord. Certainly clever enough to have long since noted new Ned's not well enough concealed distaste for the pale man. When she'd privately queried her husband as to the reason for the distance he now kept from the powerful Lord of Dreadfort, that icy shield fell into place and he'd stubbornly refused to discuss it. Some things even the Old Gods couldn't change about a man.

"Milord?" the teenage voice of Ned's Manderly squire squeaked from behind the partition.

Cat leaned over. "Time to wake up, Ned," she whispered into her husband's ear.


	5. Chapter 4

Through the day's march the kingsroad had taken the path of least resistance over the rambling, pleasant terrain of the Crownlands, passing by an ever growing number of villages and holdfasts the closer they came to their destination. A final line of small wooded hills provided the last barrier, but any resistance to their approach by the Lannisters, or simply scouts awaiting them, had long since taken the course of prudence and departed at first sign of the van. The thoroughfare, which had only in the past few days taken on a form that a Roman might not have automatically sneered at, now descended into the wide ranging pastures and farmlands surrounding Westeros' capital and largest city.

"I doubt the Lannisters will be kind enough to leave the gates open again, will they?" Roose Bolton suggested wryly as King's Landing at last came fully into view.

Sean said nothing in response to the Lord of the Dreadfort, the day's designated riding companion. For once it wasn't his visceral dislike of the book tainted arch-traitor that kept his mouth shut tight, but the incredible visage splayed out on the far end of the muddy, hastily harvested plain before him. During his short time in George's War of the Roses fantasy, the actor had visited dozens of working castles, any one of which would have left a medieval historian with a yearlong stiffy. At the start of his odyssey, once he'd stopped slashing himself and started realizing the inexplicable whatever the hell you call it that had happened to him was in fact real, White Harbor had proven a wonder of history come to life. But not even Carcassonne, which he'd once taken an overnight trip to while on holiday in Provence, held a match to this Middle Age megalopolis. All of Carcassonne might fit inside what must be the Red Keep straddling a hill towards the back left. That was no set or CGI rendering of Minas Tirith. No one, not even Peter fucking Jackson, could construct a prop that big!

"I fear our army won't be that lucky, Lord Roose," Catelyn answered politely, covering for her not husband's silence.

Bolton's pale lips frowned slightly. "An attack taking the city walls will raise our banners' humors. I fear their hot blood might lead to a sack. According to Lord Stannis' repute, he would take such pillaging poorly."

"What would you suggest, Lord Roose? A course of leeches to draw out our men's bile?" Sean interjected.

The Flaying Lord's answering smile held no joy. "T'would be preferable, my lord; however, I doubt enough could be found in time to matter very much. Alas, my page only carries sufficient number for my own needs; though I would happily share my meager supply should you ever find a draining beneficial," he answered with his usual dispassion.

Not Ned controlled the shudder that wanted to release itself. 'Mad, he's fucking mad,' the actor thought. But instead of giving into his sentiment, he neutrally replied, "You're generosity is noted, Lord Roose. But now, I would like a generous helping of your cunning generalship. I fear our army is too small to properly invest the length of the city wall. How would you recommend we position ourselves?"

Something dark glistened for a moment in Roose's moon white eyes, then promptly faded as the Leech Lord began to softly expound on how he would keep the Lannisters penned in.

Sean, Cat, Roose Bolton, and the remaining nine hundred men from the Dreadfort found the foot of the vanguard pulled up a half mile or so from the Gate of the Gods, the kingsroad's entrance into King's Landing. The actor had already spied the cavalry elements of Lords Karstark's, Mallister's, and Glover's banners in squadron sized groups off in the distance, keeping a wary eye on the other gates leading into and out of the massive walls. Though none of the trio had fought with not Ned against the bald not Charles, clearly his trust had not been misled in selecting them to lead the army that day; these hard bastards knew war. Whats more, even if they'd proven less able he might have selected them anyway, the Lord of Winterfell couldn't be seen to play Green Fork favorites, no matter the implications of his modified St. Crispin's Day speech, with the headstrong group of pride swollen lords he commanded.

The three lords, their close kinsmen, lieutenants, and notable hangers-on trotted up to greet the Lord Paramount of the North at the head of the first contingent of the long, slowly approaching line of the main column. "Good day, my lords," not Ned called out briskly, trying to hide his nerves. "I hope we're far enough away that a lucky shot from yonder wall won't ruin our little rebellion before we've had a chance to pull the Lannister cub off the Iron Throne?"

Most of the men around him chuckled either with mild amusement or self-serving sycophancy at his small witticism.

"Nay, my lord," replied Jason Mallister, the only one of the van's leadership with any real knowledge of King's Landing and its possible defenses or defenders. "The Gold Cloaks are little better than riff raff, good only for extorting shop keeps and pimps. They're more like to accidentally launch one of their own out of a catapult than actually throw a rock at us."

This cheery assessment of their foes lack of martial ability engendered another round of laughter. To the actor, the walls appeared dangerously tall and foreboding, though he felt reassured by his banners high spirits and apparent expectations of success at the prospect of storming them. They'd be less eager once he shared another Old Gods 'revelation'. Still, he had a few book inspired ideas on how to safely skin the lions hiding in their fortified den.

"Your pardon, Lord Stark," Roose Bolton interrupted quietly, as was his wont. "Whither would you have my men-at-arms form their part of the siege line? I fear if we tarry any longer, Ser Stevron will march his column into the back of mine, sooner rather than the later the Freys are rightly known for."

If another had made a slight jape at the expense of the Freys, Sean would likely have expressed some amusement; instead, he simply craned his neck around to see an oversized flag sporting a pair of blue towers at the front of two and half thousand of old Walder's bastards, real or otherwise, rapidly approaching. Just like the tricky arseholes to stick too close to their brethren in the art of treachery, the Boltons. Still, no time to dawdle, he turned back. "Thank you, Lord Roose. And I will take your earlier counsel." In a louder voice, he then announced, "My Lords, in council we've debated what to do as we lack the numbers for a proper siege. With our new king coming with a mighty fleet that will block up the Blackwater, we shall make our line from here at the kingsroad north by northeast all the way to the bay. If the Lannisters want to flee on the gold road, let them try," he finished with evident scorn.

A few tried to hide sour looks at not Ned's orders, but none squawked at it; for every one of his hairy assed barbarian warlords respected the icy Stark glare the actor could turn on them when he felt displeased or angered.

Satisfied, not Ned continued. "Take your place, Lord Roose, beside the silver gauntlets of Deepwood Motte. I will direct Ser Stevron to form up on the other side of you." Sean had mostly behaved during his day long sojourn with the Leech Lord, but now something snapped inside and the actor couldn't help but try to goad a reaction out of the placid, coldly calculating son of a bitch. "Perhaps side by side, the two of you can soon settle on a marriage contract. 'Tis time you tried to beget another trueborn heir or three."

This unexpected, but juicy tidbit set the surprised nobility to muttering amongst themselves. Roose Bolton, however, didn't appear pleased at the airing of his machinations. Nevertheless, he bowed as formally as he could from his saddle and softly stated, "My Lord is all knowing."

Sean smiled cruelly. "If the Freys offer you your bride's weight in silver for a dowry, I'd choose Fat Walda for your bedding." Three river crossings had ultimately been the old snake's dowry for not Ned's not son. At least the boy seemed happy with his bride; Edmure would never know what he lost out on and Jeyne Westerling would never bring down a kingdom. The actor silently acknowledged he had come a long, dark way in how he treated other lords: whether pledged banners, rivals, or both.

* * *

_Jabba the Hut; well, his unconscious mind's imaginative rendering of the ridiculously obese Wyman Manderly, lumbered with all possible speed (not much!) off his heavily reinforced throne in the Merman's Court. During the brief time Sean had spent in this too realistic dream, the only thing he'd seen more impressive than Lord Manderly's bulk was the edifice around him. The castle looked and smelled so fucking real. 'Tread lightly,' he cautioned himself, 'Westeros is a nightmare, not a pleasant day dream.'_

"_My Lord!" the fat man wheezed, trying to bow as far as his fat gut would allow. With a grimace of discomfort the tub of lard straightened his back once he thought decorum sufficiently met._

_No, not Jabba the Hut. That was unfair. This was sword and sorcery, not science fiction. An understudy to a cave troll would be more apt, Sean decided._

"_We had no word you'd escaped your imprisonment! Lady Catelyn left here just a week ago with my sons, my knights, and my men-at-arms, bound for the gathering at Moat Caillin that young Lord Robb called for."_

_Hhmmmn, 'interesting' he thought, trying to dredge up where in the story's chronology his dream had put him. 'I, well Ned, might have just been beheaded,' he decided and then suddenly chuckled to himself, realizing, 'Baelor's square would have been a hell of a spot to have arrived in.'_

_The cave troll warbled some more platitudes, sound issuing forth from his wide gullet like some large creature._

_Coo coo cuchoo flitted through his brain. 'No, he's a walrus,' Sean finally realized, then wondered how soon it would be before the blubbery man would morph into a real walrus. Funny how seldom it was he dreamed about a part, maybe because he'd found so few of his characters a mystery. If he could remember later, he'd ask a few of his method friends about their dreams while they were inhabiting a role._

"_If anyone could single handedly cut his way out of King's Landing, it's you, my Lord," the figment of his imagination labelled Wyman Manderly blabbered on._

_He knew sycophancy. He was a movie star, wasn't he, god damn it! But this seemed more than a little over the top for even a dream. So he simply smiled modestly at the praise and said nothing._

"_Will you go join your son and seek justice for good King Robert's death and the Lannisters' treachery?"_

_Sean pondered for a moment and decided to play along. His under things might be a bit damp. And he did smell too much like urine. But this couldn't be real. Could it? Nahhhh. He would act the hero; he wondered how far he could get rectifying all of Ned's bone headed mistakes before waking up._

"_Lord Manderly, I wish I could partake of your famed hospitality, but time is of the essence. The Old Gods themselves have intervened in my destiny; to return me to the North so that I might set right a great wrong and fight against the coming Winter. May I ask of you, Winterfell's truest friend, for a sturdy horse and a company of stout companions to accompany me to my heir and lady wife?"_

_The blubbery walrus positively puffed up, if that was even possible for such an overlarge man, at Sean's little speech. "Certainly, my Lord," he practically shouted in agreement. And then he did in fact bellow, "Serrrr Tyyyyybald! Horses! My Lord requires a mount and an escort!"_

'_Well that was easy,' Sean thought._

* * *

While lordlings, knights, and freeriders looked after their precious destriers, simple men-at-arms swung picks and shuffles to hastily construct a ditch and rampart before the sun set. The march from Darry had seen a ramshackle approach to making each night's encampment, but not now, not here, so close to an enemy force, even a feeble one. For the few men who scoffed at the need for such hard work at the end of a day's long march, ten survivors of the field works at the Green Fork vehemently shouted down the complainer. Inside the Stark pavilion, quickly raised once Robb marched Winterfell's men into the expanding siege line facing King's Landing, a different sort of work occurred; that of the actor's craft. Here a lad from Sheffield played a role with all his heart, as if his very life depended on how well the audience liked his lines.

As the chatter and arguing of the gathered Northerns and Riverlands filled the tent, Sean wished he remembered more Shakespeare, so far it had worked motivational wonders in Westeros. He'd used it to browbeat those who'd foolishly proclaimed not Rich the King in the North. And the boys had really lapped it up on the Green Fork right before the Westerland knights impaled themselves on the North's pike shafts. But now his classical training failed him. Macbeth, King Lear, Titus Andronicus, Henry V, they all dealt with war, deceit, and death; unfortunately not a one addressed how to prepare men to face magic napalm. Luckily he had other tricks up his mummer's sleeves.

"My lords," not Ned announced. "My lords!" The clamor of voices started to settle. "As poorly defended as the walls are, I fear the Lannisters are not defenseless."

"How so?" some wag called.

"Let the Greatjon show his ugly phiz and they're sure to run away," another shouted, inducing a great many cries of amusement, including one from the Greatjon himself.

The Ned face fell into place in full force. Sean slowly swung his head from side to side, catching the eye of many of the assembled lords. He didn't open his mouth again until silence filled the crowded tent. It didn't take long.

"The Old Gods have sent me a vision," he proclaimed slowly.

Those words never failed to produce a response, even from among the believers of the Seven. Eyes shone brighter. Cruel grins, expecting woe for their foemen, broke out. Anticipation filled the air.

Sean let a pregnant pause draw out the moment. Less was more. Let what passed for his lords' imaginations wonder at the mystery of a gods sent vision. "The false queen … has commanded the city's pyromancers to brew her their dragon draught. '

A low hiss met the pronouncement. The threat of wildfire had promptly doused everyone's enthusiasm for immediately storming the walls, smiles turning to scowls and angry looks.

"Yes, the gold cloaks have jugs of the vile stuff. The fools are more likely to burn themselves than us; still, what casualties might we expect now taking a gate?"

An unhappy silence greeted his question until the Leech Lord opened his quiet mouth. "A thousand," he whispered.

Those soft words broke the quiet and a loud torrent roiled about the tent. "Aye, thousands!" "Others take them!" "Roose has the right of it." "Seven Hells!" Glover, Hornwood, Frey, Tully, Mallister, Mormont, Tallhart, Blackwood, Cerwyn, Karstark, Tully, Manderly, Vance, Ryswell, and Braken all gave voice to their frustration and fear.

Sean rubbed his stubbly beard, 'this isn't going to be easy,' he thought. The grim faces of his barbarian warlords confirmed it; however, the actor played the Game of Thrones with house money, George's printed words. "Quiet. Quiet now," he commanded. "I have no doubt our brave banners could take the walls, but a Trout's life, a Moose's life, an Eagle's life is as precious to me as mine own honor," not Ned said stolidly. "I won't waste them." Then he suddenly grinned like a shark. "Luckily a clever northerner knows how to sweet talk a southern lass out of her maidenhood. And what's more, that false Lannister queen hiding behind those walls is nothing but a cheap whore. We just need to dangle the right coin in front of her and she'll gladly open up her gate."

His loyal group of psychopathic killers shook with laughter. A meager smile of amusement even slightly turned up the corners of Bolton's bloodless lips. Ned would never have japed with them like that, but they seemed to enjoy the new, Old Gods' ordained, friendlier bloke they believed to be their over lord. Sean tried his hardest to always stay in character, but there were limits even for the best actors; sometimes the lad from Sheffield just slipped out. But in the main, the actor did try, if not always succeed, to conform with Westeros' so called code of chivalry and Ned's overly rigid sense of honor.

"First, my lords," the actor began. "First … we must formally announce our presence and demand surrender of the city in the name of the true and only king, Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm."

A less than enthusiastic muttering of agreement met Stannis's name, Robert's brother as the books amply showed, and this response proved yet again, was not beloved. But not Ned pressed forward with his plan regardless, "Lord Roose, at first light, ride to the Dragon Gate as our chosen envoy and make such a proclamation?"

The bloodless man bobbed his pale face and in that annoying, too quiet voice, replied, "As my Lord requires."

"And if you happen to mention we have the Kingslayer as a hostage, I'm sure word of that will quickly reach the Red Keep."

"Bait for the lioness," Bolton whispered, a calculating look of approval on his face.

"Coin for the whore queen!" the Greatjon shouted gleefully.

Through the laughter accompanying the giant's quip, Sean thought dark thoughts about his designated spokesman. 'Don't get too pleased with yourself, fuck head, I haven't forgotten what you did, will do (?), would have done (?), in the not now. If I'm lucky, some nervous gold cloak will pitch a pot of wildfire at your sorry ass.'

"Do you think they will yield, Lord Stark?" Ser Brynden asked seriously.

"No, Cersei's too stubborn and stupid to yield. If she had any sense the lot of them would've fled the moment they heard of both her father and her brother's defeats. Regardless, honor requires us to give her an opportunity to surrender. The offer must be made."

Several of the Riverland lords bobbed their heads in agreement, while the Greatjon let loose a rude sound in rejoinder that elicited more chuckles from the less knightly.

Sean purposefully iced his face, pulling a Ned; he didn't want the meeting to careen out of control. "Lord Umber, since you so highly approve of the plan, on the morrow you will erect a high platform on which we can display the Kingslayer. I want the false queen to be able to see her brother from Aegon's Hill. Place it opposite the Dragon's Gate, just within catapult range."

The minor chastisement did little to dampen his tallest and strongest banner's good humor. "Happy too, milord," his base voice cheerily rumbled.

"Oh, Lord Roose, another thing," not Ned continued.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Kindly loan the Umbers one of your house's flags. I want the Flayed Man flying above the Kingslayer so Cersei knows what will happen if she doesn't cooperate."

The pale man smiled truly now. "As my lord commands," he replied.

Not Ned nodded back and then addressed the rest of the tent. "My friends, we must not wait solely on a stratagem that relies on the vagaries of a woman. Each of you are to task your stealthiest men to approach the walls and gates tonight, and every night, until the city falls. Work it out amongst yourselves which lord has which stretch of wall. I want your slyest hunters, craftiest poachers, and sneakiest thieves to sweet talk the gold cloaks, sell swords, and whatever other scum the Lannisters have manning the parapets with bribes. Silver, wine, gold, women, writs of amnesty; anything they think might make a turncoat. I want a way into that city that doesn't cost us a sea of blood."

His pack of cutthroats seemed to appreciate that idea. In their own way, each lord did look after his own banners and men-at-arms. Oaths meant something in a medieval world. Here a man's sworn pledge had meaning; well, usually, it was Westeros after all, home of the Red Wedding and other mindless atrocities.

"Ser Brynden?"

"Yes, Lord Stark."

"You're a blackfish. Find a few more likely trouts and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the bay and the rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances into the Red Keep." He smiled, looking at Catelyn's bluff, loyal to the core uncle. "Kindly discover one, Ser."

"Gladly."

"Good. In the meantime, the men are to continue building the siege line. I want a score of catapults, a half dozen rolling siege towers, and plenty of very, very long ladders built within a week. I don't intend to assault those walls, but those bastards damned well need to think we're coming. Any questions? No? Good. Then off with you, I've better things to do than look at your ugly faces," Sean announced with a grin. The actor still got a surge of near sexual excitement from the power he held over these hard, dangerous men. He chuckled inside. If only they knew who he really was.

The band of rogues scurried away to do not Ned's bidding, leaving Sean with only his family, both Stark and Tully, present in the big tent. He frequently ended each day in consult with Edmure and Brynden; one for his brains and the other because he was the acting liege lord for half the army.

"Ahem. Father?" asked not Rich.

Robb's resemblance to the young Scot who Sean knew from the set was tenuous at best. Here, he actually bore a true familial look to not Michelle. "Yes, Robb? Something bothering you?" the actor replied, noting the unhappy tone in the lad's voice.

"Do you intend to have Lord Bolton torture the Kingslayer?" he asked uncomfortably.

Sean saw the Blackfish, standing a pace or three behind not Rich, perk up with interest at the question. Cat's uncle had looked askance, though mostly kept his mouth shut about it, at his good nephew's dishonorable conduct in beating Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork. And now he too clearly wanted to take measure of what not Ned intended to do with the Old Lion's king slaying but knightly offspring.

"Only if I have to son," he answered truthfully.

A pained look expressed itself on the teenage boy's face. "But, that … there is no honor in that, ser."

Sean sighed. "No, there isn't," he agreed. "Though you hate the Lannisters, Robb, and I hope too the very act of war, you've fought them with honor; honor they utterly lack. You don't know them, son. Don't know them like I know them. I lived in their cesspool of lies, greed, paranoia, backstabbing and madness for months, until they cut my head off and proclaimed it 'mercy'. There's not a shred of honor in any of them. So tell me, how many more thousands of good, honest northmen must die simply because we would refuse to treat one man, ONE MAN, the way he and all his kin would do, have already done, to a Stark?"

"I don't like it father," Robb answered petulantly.

The actor could clearly see how the boy was being guided by the certainty of youth and his upbringing under Ned 'too fucking honorable for his own good' Stark. From a glance, it at least appeared the Blackfish was pursing his lips in evident consideration of the actor's logic.

Sean sighed again. "I don't either son, but a single life, let alone a thousand lives, is a precious thing."

* * *

_A thousand men, at least; that many northerners had died delaying Tywin Lannister's pursuit the last three days as they retreated up the kingsroad. On the positive side, far more than that number of Westerlanders had paid the ultimate price. Now Sean would see if his plan, ok, mostly the crew's discussions during filming of what Roose Bolton should have done along the Green Fork, would work. Everybody on set had had opinions, but the smart talk always seemed to focus on the Trident; the possibilities it presented, not the obstacles. None of the talk had ever mentioned the brutal, horrible human cost of war._

_He'd swallowed bile the first time he saw a man, unfortunately left behind by his brothers due to a lamed mount, struck down, arm cut clean off, by an armored knight clad in a purple unicorn emblazoned surcoat. He'd barely kept his gorge watching the Boltons spring the first carefully planned ambush, cutting down a few hundred or so Lannister riders in the van of the pursuit. Blood spurted. Limbs fell. Heads rolled. Intestines slid out. Horses screamed. Men shrieked, moaned, cried, and called for their mothers, or mercy, or water._

_It was at that moment Sean finally, utterly realized, 'this shit is real!' The crazy, feudal thinking sons of bitches following him around like faithful dogs suddenly stopped being actors and extras merely playing a part until they heard 'cut' and could descend on the food trucks conveniently just out of picture shot. The fact that these smelly, dirty desperate men lived, loved, and died brutally at last sank in, piercing the mental shield the actor had unknowingly erected to keep his sanity. With a supreme effort, not wanting to unman himself before his men, he locked down his face in the pose he thought of as classic icy Ned._

_Medger Cerwyn, the lord closest to him at the observation point when war had become more than something watched on BBC documentaries, misread not Ned's reaction. "Oh, it's not so bad as it looks, my Lord. The Dreadfort banners struck early, true, but only a mite. None of those scum will escape, what did you call it earlier? The Bag?" The Boltons had lost some souls in that quick victory. And later the Hornwoods. And then the Glovers. And a day later a few Ryswells, followed by Cerwyns and Karstarks and more Glovers and more Boltons._

_Today men sworn directly to Winterfell had already fallen beneath the swords, arrows, and spears of the pursuing Westerlanders. His banners all manfully, dutifully marched and counter marched and charged resolutely to their dooms, not knowing what trick their liege lord intended to at last unleash upon the Lannister horde in order to defeat it. Sean remembered the terms 'operational security,' 'interior lines,' 'strategic offense, tactical defense.' Only the four greatest lords leading this host, Bolton, Hornwood, Cerwyn, and Glover, knew the deception at the heart of not Ned's plan. Unfortunately its greatest weakness lay in that it depended upon the aid of the dark hearted, ancient Lord of the Twins. David, the crotchety Argus Filch of Potter fame, held not one bit of wickedness when compared to the evil that had oozed out of Walder Frey when Sean had bargained his future with the serpent._

"_My Lord!" My Lord!" voices shouted urgently behind him._

_He swirled his mount around. "What?!" he cried into the oncoming dusk._

"_Banners, my Lord!"_

"_Whose?" he asked, suddenly fearing they'd been outflanked._

"_Frey and Tallhart, my Lord!"_

_He slumped with relief in his saddle. If the pontoon bridge he'd been promised was in place, they'd get the chance to flank Tywin Lannister with the majority of the Northern army. And then the Nazi bastard wouldn't have a clue 'til it was too late._

* * *

"Father?" A girl's voice called through the flap leading to the smaller inner room of the pavilion; Sean and Cat's private sleeping quarter.

"The lords are all gone now, you can come out," not Ned answered, a smile starting to break through his outwardly cold demeanor. He missed his daughters; Lorna, Molly, and Evie, frightfully. He'd now have to make do with the wild haired child walking thoughtfully towards him. Sean intended to spoil Arya Stark mercilessly.

"Are you going to get Sansa back?" she asked.

"Your father's going to try his best," Cat answered bravely. The two of them had spent many nights discussing how not Ned would reunite their family.

"You'll trade the Kingslayer for her?" Arya asked dubiously. "I heard rumors that in Riverrun Robb refused to."

"Arya," Robb barked, hurt by the accusation in her voice. "That's not fair. I thought I was head of our House then. I had to decide what was best for all the North, not just our family, no matter how sore it hurt."

Sean knelt down and gently rubbed the disheveled mop of hair above her long face. "Don't blame your brother, he loves Sansa as much as you. We all want her safely back with us. Now not even I could get away with trading Jaime Lannister for just your sister. The Lannisters have hurt too many of our friends. The Karstarks, the Hornwoods, the Brackens, and many other lords would turn their backs on us if I did."

Cat stepped up beside them and laid a hand on each. "Your father is as clever as he is honorable. He has a plan that will work." Her eyes reflected the faith and trust she felt for her not husband.

"They won't like it," Robb grunted, remembering the venom so many of the lords had expressed about the Kingslayer.

"No," not Ned agreed. "But they'll abide by my decision. It's one thing for them to oppose giving up the Kingslayer from Riverrun and another when they can see what he'll bring in exchange when he's got nowhere to flee."

"Most like," Edmure added darkly.

"Oh, they'll agree," the Blackfish snorted with some amusement, knowing more about not Ned's intended targets in the coming exchange negotiations from years of receiving detailed letters rife with court intrigue from Jon Arryn.

"What are you going to do?" Arya asked with evident curiosity, being privy to her father's plans only through snippets of overheard conversations.

"Never you mind, child," not Michelle said sweetly. "It's late, you should all go to bed now … including you brother … uncle." Slowly, reluctantly the tent emptied at last. "Ned," that sweet voice whispered as she leaned her body gently into his.

"Yes, my sweet," he answered, staring into her beautiful blue orbs; feeling her other orbs resting softly on his him.

"It will work, won't it?"

"Yes," he husked, feeling his groin stir. "They fear to discover what 'Winter is Coming' truly means." In response, his passionate red haired not wife, even prettier than Michelle despite the ugly scars on her hands, pressed her warm, moist lips against his. 'Someday I'll wish this shit hole had Viagra,' he thought. 'But not yet thank god.' As he began to blissfully forget the burdens weighing him down, Sean suddenly remembered a trick he'd learned from a costume assistant back in New Zealand. The actor scrambled to remember if there was some honey and a feather in the tent.


	6. Chapter 5 - Roose (I)

**Roose (I)**

The Lord of the Dreadfort sat placidly in the saddle pretending to listen intently while a score of his men-at-arms dutifully kept their mounts steady somewhere behind him. They and an unsurprisingly large number of puffed up lordlings and self-important knights formed a wide circle around Roose and the Lord of Winterfell. He supposed he should feel honored that these men's beloved warlord publicly honored him as the sole official envoy to the Bastard King, his mother the Whore Queen, and whatever other remnants of House Lannister cowered behind King's Landing's walls. But he felt none; it was not in his nature to feel such or even care about hollow knightly principles beyond their beneficial use to manipulate lesser men. The important lords present had been at the previous night's council when 'Blessed Ned' announced his selection of Roose for this simple herald's task. 'Why the display?' he pondered, trying to calculate his liege lord's intent.

"They have had war and paid for their presumption!"

Certainly Blessed Ned showed a verbal flare which 'stolid Ned' would never have displayed. No doubt the man enjoyed putting these new mummer's skills to use. Stolid Ned was well spoken, but never prone to wagging his tongue. In fact the man seldom wagged anything, his strongly disciplined humors seldom allowing him to reveal much enjoyment of anything beyond an occasional quaint smile at a familiar song or seeing a skilled craftman at work. By Roose's evaluation Stolid Ned had been practical, extremely competent, totally honorable, sufficiently ruthless when necessary, and utterly predictable. Traits he appreciated in a liege. A lord knew what his expected boundaries were and by default, unless brainless, how to keep his liege out of his demesne. But Blessed Ned? Unfortunately not predictable. Roose sighed so softly that not even his horse noticed.

"Dispute not with her; she is lunatic."

A roar of approval greeted the nicely turned phrase setting the limits of Lord Bolton's envoy duties that morning. Amused shouts of "the Whore Queen" and "death to the Whore Queen!" interspersed the cheering.

Roose stared at Blessed Ned as the man pretended to not soak up the adulation from his little speech and thought he caught a glimpse of eerie green wildfire shimmering within those familiar icy grey eyes. This unsettled him. There was much about the Lord of Winterfell that now unsettled him; though little the Lord of the Dreadfort could do about that now. 'At least he wins,' Roose thought, recognizing the one attribute that for the moment trumped the problems he now faced with his liege's new found unpredictability.

"Make the demands of the true King known to them, Lord Bolton," Blessed Ned commanded as the cries lessened enough for him to be heard, signaling the dismissal his chosen envoy.

"As my lord commands," he replied in a voice that likely none heard over the noise, even his mount. He half bowed and then gently tugged the reins, turning his pale horse around in a scythe like arc to face the wall and the Dragon Gate.

Another cheer erupted from the pack of dogs gathered around the direwolf, the adoring howls were all for the blessed one's pretty speech and not a yelp for him or his slight mission. He knew this without a trace of rancor rising in his blood. Roose Bolton had few illusions about who he was or how he was perceived. Very few were the lordly peers he could claim to be on friendly terms with; his dead wife Bethany's family the Ryswells being the vast majority of them, and few enough from the Rills had answered the young wolf pup's summons. Perhaps Stolid Ned might have qualified as one too; the pair of them had seemed to share an unspoken, yet pleasant enough, understanding of each other. But true friends? Roose was the head of House Bolton. There were almost as many ways for a lord to rule his lands as there were lords: a capable few, sundry amiable or over fierce to cover their indifferent skill, and too many incompetent buffoons who simply held on to their holdfasts through tradition, sheer luck, or the cleverness of an adept steward. He knew which one he was and a capable lord could not afford the distraction of friendship. He ruled the Dreadfort through fear and respect. Fear made a powerful tool, but a tool that could warp a man's humors. For that very reason he chose to cool the heat of his blood with regular leachings. Let them laugh behind his back. What time or need did he have for friendship when he had mastered fear.

* * *

_Roose dispassionately watched as the last of his banners pulled out of camp and on to the kingsroad heading south as the sun started to dip. His sixteen hundred men composed the back end of the main column. A mile or two ahead the ever amiable and obliging Halys Hornwood held the honor of leading the van. And miles beyond him Robett Glover and the aptly named Black Walder Frey led half the doomed army's horse as scouts. The only troop left, making up the reserve for the coming night's forced march, was the joint contingent from the Rills and Barrowlands, a mere fifteen hundred men between them. Clearly his good sister Barbrey, a Ryswell like his own wife, still held a grudge against the Starks. Foolish, hadn't Lord Eddard allowed her, the childless wife of the Lord of Barrowton, to keep ruling that demesne after her lord husband's demise, despite the rights of the nearest trueborn Dustin cousin? Foolish, but useful. Those two houses' main strength kept safe in the North would not be deleted by this mummer's farce. _

_He couldn't predict how the young pup's rebellion would end, other than badly. In the resulting chaos that would sweep the North from their inevitable defeat, the Lord of the Dreadfort fully intended to remain in power. Strong allies in the coming years would be necessary to survive. It could not be accomplished obviously, but he intended for his flayed men, the Dustin's crossed axes, and the Ryswell's bronze horses to suffer the least on the next morning, regardless the outcome. The only problem being that the Hornwoods lay between his lands and theirs. Luckily Halys, so valiantly commanding the van, had but one trueborn heir, a son. Roose hoped that Daryn, riding in the forlorn hope to breach Riverrun's siege, would fall prey to his vigorous youthful humors and prove as foolishly valiant as his father by being in the van there._

_Roose had just started contemplating what to do with the Freys, powerful but perhaps too suspect to rely on as an ally, when his thoughts were interrupted._

"_Banners, milord," Walton called just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the men. "On horses. Quite a few."_

_Roose looked over at his captain. The man raised a chainmail clad arm and pointed to the north. The Lord of the Dreadfort readily hid any surprise for he knew they couldn't have been outflanked by any Lannister outriders and turned to watch the direction from which they'd marched just that morning. Their little camp here had simply been to take a last break for rest and food before the night's long march._

"_Frey … Tallhart … and … Manderly," Walton announced, grunting the last house name with surprise. _

_Wylis Manderly, a hardened Stark loyalist like all his forefathers going back a thousand years, rode at the front of the main column. Fewer mermen would be convenient both for that and because Lady Hornwood was a Manderly by birth. Manderly lands abutted her lord husband's. 'Perhaps more of Wylis' honor loving cousins have simply come late to this doomed war,' Roose pondered, searching for a reasoned explanation as to why near one hundred riders would show up now._

_Suddenly a shout went up amongst the Ryswells and Dustins. "Stark!" "Stark!" "Stark!"_

_Then Roose saw it, a grey banner unfurling in the breeze, the distinct direwolf sigil becoming visible. Unconsciously Roose put spur to horse, eager to discover what last minute message the boy lord Robb had sent him via the Twins._

_The shouts of "Stark!" swelled louder._

_Roose rode closer, an anxious knot forming in his usually docile belly. The cheering men parted so the two parties of mounted men could approach each other. Roose felt his pale face turn paler._

"_Lord Roose," the familiar voice called out._

"_Lord Stark," he hailed back, struggling for once to keep his voice no louder than absolutely necessary. "I rejoice to see you free of the Lion's grip. All the North has risen for you. Have you …"_

"_No time, Lord Roose," Eddard Stark cut in._

_There was something odd about his liege lord's demeanor. Nevertheless he promptly bobbed his head once in acquiescence._

"_Have you crossed swords with the Lannister's yet?!" the Lord of Winterfell demanded, with a hint of a quiver in his voice._

"_I meant to sneak a march on them tonight and attack their camp at dawn, my lord," he responded, watching relief flash through Eddard Stark's familiar grey eyes. The longer he looked at them though, the stranger they appeared, revealing glimpses of things never before reflected from them._

"_It would be a disaster," the man blurted. "Send riders immediately. The army is to turn around. We march back towards the Twins."_

_Roose lightly pursed his lips, calmly accepting that his plan had just fallen apart for better or for worse. He pointed at Walton. "See that my lord's command is followed." Then spying the senior captains of the Ryswell and Dustin banners, he called, "Lord Errold, Ser Ronnel, turn your men around, you are now the van. March now."_

_The knight from House Stout, face darting between Lords Stark and Bolton, began to ask, "How far are we to …"_

"_Go," the Lord of the Dreadfort hissed._

_Despite the almost overwhelming desire to stay with the returned Lord Paramount of the North and hear his tale, the two men obeyed. Even a fool could see that if they were not to attack the Lannisters on the morrow, here was not the place to defend against the lions. Orders began being barked and the gathered men-at-arms started moaning as they too had wanted to listen to the very man whose capture had caused them all to march to war._

_Finally satisfied his commands were being properly followed, Roose succumbed to his own curiosity and returned his attention to Eddard Stark. He found an angry visage plastering his lord's face. The man's knuckles whitened from gripping the pommel of his sword too tightly. The Lord of Winterfell's eyes shone with a look familiar to the Lord of the Dreadfort from other men, but one he'd only seen a time before or two from his liege, and that during the heat of the last rebellion. He saw hate._

"_I take it that you escaped, my lord; not released or pardoned by the King?" Roose asked._

"_Yes," Lord Stark ground out._

"_So we are still at war with the Lannisters then," he continued. "My lord should know that his son Robb …"_

"_Has captured the Kingslayer and broken the siege of Riverrun," the Lord of Winterfell interjected._

_Roose blinked once in surprise. With the distances needed to be marched, there was no way the young pup could have won such a victory any sooner than yesterday. Even with the fastest raven, this news couldn't have … why was his lord lying? "Great news, my lord. Perhaps with his son as our hostage, you might parley with Lord Tywin and negotiate a peace?" he suggested, very interested to see how the Lord of Winterfell would respond to the bait._

_Eddard Stark stared a long time at Roose Bolton before answering. "No, we crush the Lannisters, join up with Robb, and seize the Iron Throne for the true king."_

'_Folly,' Roose thought. The Lord of Winterfell intended to take an unnecessarily daring course, which surprised him, for he had at last recognized what else looked out of those usually icy grey eyes. What he saw was fear. But of whom or what, he still needed to discern._

* * *

The walls loomed larger. The finer parts of the pointlessly ornate reliefs carved into the obviously named Dragon Gate came into focus. His escort kept a wary eye out for any deceit from above or an ambush coming out a sally port. Roose ignored that, trusting to his men's competence. Instead he kept pondering why Blessed Ned had chosen him for this mission fit for a jester and not a flaying man; though one viewed as an honor by most of fellow lords. Mayhap his lord wished a nervous gold cloak would drop wildfire on his head.

Blessed Ned's poor display of courtesy to him the previous day, no matter the Lady Catelyn's discreet attempts to bridge the awkward moments, simply confirmed for Roose the low standing the Lord of Winterfell had held him in since his return. The first few days as they had retreated back up the kingsroad from the Lannisters, when the hate and fear still broke through that icy face in his presence, the Lord of the Dreadfort thought his liege suspected him of his planned treachery. But knowing of Eddard Stark's honor, he knew the man would not act without proof and Roose had wisely chosen, as with all the best guarded secrets, to tell no one of his intended perfidy.

The campaign along the Green Fork had caused him to make his first reassessment of the Lord of Winterfell. Victory changes many things. The death of Tywin Lannister and the destruction of his army had certainly altered Roose's calculations of whose lands would now be cursed with fire and sword, rape and pillage, the ravages of chaos. Yet it had not been Blessed Ned's proclamations of visions, his brilliant strategy for outflanking the Lannisters, nor his clever tactics on that final battlefield that had changed Roose's opinion of the man so much. It had been Eddard Stark's willingness to throw away a lifetime of his precious honor to secure victory that struck him most.

Such a man would not hesitate to kill another if he believed him a traitor. Never. Yet Roose still lived. And after the battle the sheer hate and fear he saw his lord's eyes direct at him had faded. Oh there were still minor slights, as if his dislike periodically boiled up in his blood so hot he must release it or explode. Nevertheless, when the Lord of the Dreadfort offered sound counsel at the "staff" meetings Blessed Ned held almost nightly, the man accepted it without willingly. His ill humors only seemed to arise at the oddest, most unexpected of times. But the displays of yesterday had almost seen his behavior return to that of the retreat up the kingsroad. Yet Blessed Ned kept this lord whom he despised close to his side. The unpredictability of it all near brought on a fever that only a leeching would cool.

'Why?' he wondered with frustration, the heat growing. Then, for perhaps the first time in his life, the thought struck Roose Bolton that another might be using him for his own ends.

"Milord, we're here," a voice called.

"You may begin," he said softly to the rider beside him.

"Hail the Wall!" Walton bellowed. "Lord Roose, the envoy of the North brings a message to King's Landing from the True Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the True King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the True Protector of the Realm! Who will speak for the usurper of the Iron Throne!"

His captain's mighty roar rang uncomfortably in Roose's ears. Apparently the shout had been loud enough and a white cloak swirled in the breeze as a knight leaned between the merlons to look down upon him. A Kingsguard, Roose knew not which one. According to Blessed Ned's visions Barristan Selmy had long since fled King's Landing and of course Jaime Lannister was prisoner somewhere in the multitude of tents behind him. The current lot protecting the Bastard King were a pale imitation of those that had protected Mad Aerys; yet their illustrious names had been insufficient to save the burner. What chance these feeble straws for saving the incestuous fruit of the Lannister twin's uncontrollable lust? Mad as Aerys they were in their own way and just as destructive though they'd played with a different kind of fire.

Sounds issued forth from the red bearded face high above, but no intelligible words reached their ears.

"What did he say?" he whispered to Walton.

"I did not hear either, milord. Too much wind," his captain answered with a frown. Then Steelshanks extended his long legs to stand in his stirrups, fully revealing the source of his nickname amongst the troops. "Say again!" he shouted. "We can't hear you!"

Realization dawned on Roose and he started to chuckle oh so very softly. 'Of course, that's why he selected me. He wants to force me to yell.' As the mirthless chuckle died away as quickly as it arose, he immediately wondered whether the Lord of Winterfell had already shared this feeble jape with the other lords or if, like with so many of the newly odd things about him, Blessed Ned only intended to keep this amusement to himself.


	7. Chapter 6

With the clangs of the Umber giants constructing the viewing platform in the background, Sean calmly watched the unfortunately still alive Leech Lord ride his mount at a slow walk back towards him and the siege line. He hadn't truly held out much hope of an errant arrow or jar of wildfire of miraculously solving the problem known as Roose Bolton. With the ills descending on Westeros like the proverbial ten plagues of Egypt, the actor coveted the Dreadfort's men like David had Bethsheba. He just didn't intend to be as obvious in offing his rival for their loyalty as the Old Testament King had been his lover's Hittite husband. In the middle of the night, when he lay awake rationalizing the deaths he'd caused and would continue causing, he never once felt a moment's guilt for his intentions to that sick bastard.

"Ser Olyvar," he called out.

"Yes, my Lord?" his aide responded.

"Kindly send someone to stop the Greatjon's men from hammering. I'll have a hard enough time hearing Lord Bolton speak without all that pounding filling my ears," he explained.

"Right away, my Lord," Olyvar responded. The young knight pointed a finger and one of the Lord of Winterfell's messengers trotted off.

The few remaining lordlings and underlings about him smirked at the apparent quip.

Not Ned noticed their reaction. These brown tongues took their cue from him, their liege lord. While he knew Bolton had few, if any, friends among the army, the man was still the lord of a noble house. He doubted they'd be so open about mocking the Greatjon … ok, bad example, no body but a madman would mock the giant. But neither would they mock Lord Rickard or Lord Jason. Lord Jonos or Lady Maege. Lord Medger or Lord Tytos. Ser Wylis or … well … the man was a godsdamned walrus. Sean shook his head. Cat had been right when she admonished him in private last night over his discourtesy towards the leech lover. These people were homicidal killers, not stupid. They noticed things. He needed to do a better job of hiding his instinctive hatred of the pale faced man.

The actor breathed deep and stuck a properly serious and respectful look on his face to await his envoy's return.

"Lord Stark," the man murmured upon drawing close and reining his milk white mount to a stop. The Lord of the Dreadfort followed it up with a half bow out of which his moon colored eyes shifting back and forth to take in the much smaller audience than before his departure.

"Lord Roose, I thank you for your service in delivering the true King's message to the rebels." No one blinked at the disingenuous description of whose message had truly been delivered to the city. From Darry they had sent several ravens to Dragonstone describing the destruction of the two Lannister armies, explaining their intentions to march on King's Landing, and acknowledging Stannis as King. The first response back, which not Ned had received by courier the second day out of Darry, had asked for proof their ravens hadn't been a Lannister ruse. Sean thought identifying Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella as the bastard off spring of Cersei and Jaime Lannister sufficiently unLannister like evidence of his bona fides. The response to that, received again by horse from Darry only a week ago, had been as succinct as not Ned supposed the real Stannis to be. 'I will gather my fleet and come for my throne.' "I hope the rebels received the message loud and clear," Sean continued.

Roose Bolton blinked once before softly uttering, "They did, my Lord."

"And what was their response?"

"They flung insults at me, my Lord," said Roose Bolton quietly.

The actor fought hard to A) keep his respectful look in place, B) not bark 'speak louder for Christ's sake,' C) stop his skin from crawling away from the creepy Lord of the Dreadfort, and D) hide his renewed disappointment that no one fragged Bolton's sorry pale carcass during the brief mission to the Dragon Gate. He sighed, but not too dramatically. "T'was to be expected from the scared fools," Sean murmured softly.

Roose Bolton cocked his head as if he couldn't quite catch what the Lord of Winterfell had just spoken. Nevertheless he replied with a Westeros safe phrase when dealing with any noble superior, a non-distinct, "my Lord."

"And you let them know of the Kingslayer's presence in our host?"

A whisper of a smile flitted across that pale face. "I did, my Lord. They were not impressed with my claim. In between epithets, I gather they require proof that the man is who I said he is."

Not Ned echoed a faint smile back at the pale man, whose whisper of up turned lips had suddenly turned into an odd grin. "And that we shall give them as soon as yonder platform is built. I thank you for the loan of your banner. I can think of no sight greater than that of the Flayed Man of the Dreadfort to strike fear into a foe, Lord Roose," he pronounced.

"My Lord."

"I shall call on your services as envoy again when I have need of them, Lord Roose. In the meantime, please return to your men with my thanks. I am sure I shall see you again as I intend to tour the siege line and camp today. If there are any supplies you find your banners lacking, let me know then and I shall do my utmost to meet your needs."

"My Lord," Lord Bolton again repeated, this time with another bow acknowledging his dismissal, all the time that odd grin never leaving his face.

The soft call of his squire woke Sean from a pleasant dream, filled with a sense of well-being. This time in his dream Boromir fought the orcs at Parth Galen and lived! Aragorn/Viggo, Legolas/Orlando, and Gimli/John came upon him saving Merry/Dom and Pippin/Billy from those subhuman cannibals. He had redeemed himself for trying to take the Ring from Frodo/Elijah. Then doubt crept in. With the Fellowships still whole, would they chase after Frodo? Could the Ring still subvert him? Who would go raise the Ents against Isengard? Who would aid Theoden/Bernie and Eowyn/Miranda against Saruman/Chris?

"Shit," he whispered, suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of Cersei, Varys, Littlefinger, Balon, Daenerys, dragons, the Wall, and Others. "I can royally fuck things over." He fought to bolster his resolution. "Don't muck it up, mate," he declared. "Just win."

Catelyn twitched in her sleep at the murmurings of his familiar Ned voice. The reddish light infiltrating the tent, this time from the rising sun and not the eerie Red Comet, cast an enchanting glow on her. He felt a part of him twitch in response. 'Down boy,' he chided himself. 'You're not some teenaged prat.' And at that moment his wife/not wife sighed and turned, unveiling a coquettish look on her slumbering, angelic face. The sleeping hide slipped down, revealing a lovely breast capped by an engorged nipple.

As he gawked in amazement at her body, that part of him started to do more than twitch. "God, you're the MILF of the North," he exhaled, remembering last night's passion.

"My Lord?" came the soft pitched voice of Merle, the second cousin twice removed of Wyman Manderly, who he'd taken on as his squire two months earlier at White Harbor.

"Coming," he grumbled, leaving the sleeping chamber for the main anteroom of his oversized tent as quietly as he could. He'd ridden as much all day yesterday in camp as he had any day in the last three and half weeks or so on the kingsroad. He'd hoped his aching body would've gotten a rest; and then Cat had … 'well that did work some of the kinks out of my body,' he thought.

Merle placed the slop bucket in front of Sean and he took a good, hard piss. That had taken some getting used to, the lack of privacy for so many functions. At least he no longer froze up in situations where his 'modern' sensibilities would be tipped on their end. He'd actually killed a man with his own hand! Let alone gave the orders that caused the deaths of thousands more. 'Fucking arse over tits world.'

The portly youth next held out thick leather pants for not Ned to put on, then slipped first a silk shirt and second leather armor over his head, and finally strapped on his belt, sword, and various accoutrements of biker gang looking chain mail. Sean at least stepped into his boots himself. Actors were a coddled lot, he admitted; but a true Sheffield man, even a rich pampered one like himself, had limits to what he'll allow another bloke to do for him.

He strode out of his tent to find his New Model Staff of lordly second and third and fourth sons already gathered and waiting. Some of them had originally been in Robb's company of personal guards on the lad's clever drive to retake Riverrun. Others had demonstrated brains and bravery along the Green Fork and lived to tell their tales of heroic deeds. A few he'd even noticed on the march down from Darry and had plucked then away from their proud fathers or obliging liege lords. Here, in front of King's Landing, they represented the future to Sean. Still young enough to learn new things; and equally important, of high enough birth to be taken seriously by the motley collection of truculent Northern and Riverland barbarian chiefs pledged to not Ned. Someday these lads would take on important positions within their houses or maybe even inherit; then they would become leaders and hopefully follow Winterfell's lead in making changes. If he was to improve this shithole of a twisted, murderous world, he, and someday Robb after him, would need their enthusiastic assistance.

"Is everyone here, Ser Olyvar?" he asked.

The umpteenth offspring of the vile Walder Frey coughed nervously. Thank god a few of that evil bastard's fruit had fallen very far from the spiteful tree that spawned them. The eighteen year old had more than earned the knighthood granted to him, and was making a fine Chief Aide de Camp. "Ahhhh, I believe Lord Robb is still coming."

Sean didn't know whether to smile or frown. As heir of Winterfell, the boy needed to set a better example than this with his peers and future chief banners, not that they didn't respect and love the hero of the Whispering Woods already. But to be fair, by Sean's own earthly upbringing, Robb was on his unfortunately very disjointed honeymoon. Undoubtedly the lad had spent the night peeling and eating his luscious peach of a bride, Roslin, another far fallen fruit from Walder Frey's poisoned loins.

* * *

_Thankfully his trotting horse hid from view the shakes galloping through Sean's body, as he and the twenty Manderly mermen accompanying him rode under escort through the portcullis into the castle on one bank of the Green Fork. His nerves eased when the first person he saw upon entering the courtyard was a bluff forty old year old man in armor wearing the three pine tree coat of arms of House Tallhart. The toughest part about knowing the heraldry of hundreds of Westeros' god forsaken houses wasn't the memorization, he was an actor after all, skilled at quickly learning his lines; but casually bringing up so many so very, very many coat of arms during the week long ride from White Harbor without any of his escort catching a clue he was desperate for information the real Ned Stark could have rattled off in his sleep. He directed his horse and excruciatingly sore arse straight for the warrior._

"_My Lord!" the man shouted, joy on his face. "Praise the Old Gods, you've returned to us."_

"_Well met, Lord Helman," Sean responded. If possible, the man's body puffed out further and his eyes gleamed even more. 'Shit, did I just promote this stiff from a mere Ser? God damn it, George! Why did you have to make Westeros so complicated?' "But there is little time. How many days ago did young Robb and my lady wife cross the Twins?"_

"_Why … six nights ago, my Lord," he responded, startled out of his pleasure by not Ned's bluntness._

_Sean held up one hand and started counting off fingers while dredging up from memory the show's plot primer. Some overly dedicated crew member with too much time and not enough of a dating life had thankfully taken the time to include a planned shoot by planned shoot scene timeline matched to the book's chronology in one of the script's appendices. "Pray tell me, and did Lord Bolton leave south at that same time for the kingsroad?"_

"_Yes, my Lord," Helman Tallhart answered._

"_How many men went with him?" Sean demanded, the urgency clear in his voice._

_The Master of Torrhen's Squares eyebrows bobbled a moment, taken aback by the rapid fire questions. "Ahhh," he drawled a moment, collecting his thoughts. "With all of Lord Robb's … with all of your foot, my Lord, except those four hundred left me to keep watch on … I mean to aid Lord Frey in defending the Twins. So with Lord Frey's contribution, say sixteen thousand or more, my Lord. Oh, and about five hundred horse as well."_

"_Praise the Old Gods, there's still a chance," he sighed. Now he knew this Westeros was novel based, not derived from the show's script. 'Does that make all this any more real or me less crazy?' he wondered. To save on budget, the screen writers had changed the Battle of the Green Fork into a true feint by the North, probably a smarter move than what George wrote, sending only a few thousand men against Tywin Lannister. Then to scrimp even further, the producers hadn't even allowed an actual battle to be filmed; they simply had Peter's character knocked out right before the start of the fight. Unfortunately, not Ned couldn't so easily avoid a deadly scuffle. He just hoped the plan for this contingency that he'd thought up on the long arse pounding ride here wouldn't completely bollix things up. Let alone get himself killed!_

"_A chance for what, my Lord," Ser(?), Lord(?) Helman asked with evident concern._

"_To save Lord Bolton from disaster! Take me to Lord Frey!" he commanded. He suddenly noticed, much like the butterflies he felt right before the curtain rose, now that he was on stage and acting, his nerves had disappeared._

* * *

As they all waited for his not son to arrive, Sean had gotten a synopsis on the night's activities, which were as expected little enough. Ser Olyvar though, when did he have time to sleep(?), had pulled together a summary of which attempts to secretly suborn the gold cloaks manning the walls looked most promising. As his chief aide's report trailed off, Robb finally stumbled into the meeting.

Not Ned put on his unhappy Ned face. "Lord Robb, I am pleased you found the time to join us this morning," he cut icily.

The drowsy, pleased expression instantly snapped off the lad's face. "I .. I'm sorry fa .. aa .. my Lord."

Sean gave a curt bob of his head in acknowledgement. "I intended to do this job myself, but with Lord Umber ready to again show off the Kingslayer," and he jerked a thumb towards the twenty foot tall platform sitting just outside the newly finished siege line. "I fear my presence is needed elsewhere. Do you feel up to handling this chore?"

Robb straightened his back, putting a serious, manful look on his face. "Yes, my Lord. I'll look after whatever you need me to."

Not Ned let a wisp of smile show. "Good. Make a survey of the camp. Check to make sure the waste trenches have been dug in accordance with the directions I commanded. Ensure no one is drawing water from any source within a hundred yards of any trench. If you see any signs of a failure in shit discipline, you're to make that section's leader wish he was swinging his cock at the Wall instead of using it to piss wherever he Gods damned well felt like it here. Understand?" he snapped.

The lad visibly deflated but nevertheless gave a prompt, "Yes, my Lord."

The rest of the New Model Staff may have been amused at Robb's discomfort, but smartly refrained from showing it.

"Dismissed." And off the actor turned war waging homicidal maniac walked in order to give his next performance of the day.

* * *

_As he walked into the drafty, dim hall in the Water Tower of the Twins, sitting high above the Green Fork as it roared south, Sean found the ancient, conniving lord surrounded by his daughters and those of his male offspring too young, too feeble, or too incompetent for war._

"_Lord Stark, welcome," the snake hissed. "You'll pardon an old man for not rising to greet such an illustrious, noble lord, and … soon to be kin," he added, gleefully sinking malevolent fangs into his prey._

_The revolting sound of the bastard's voice matched his abhorrent appearance. Viscerally, perhaps for the first time ever, Sean's naked eyes looked upon evil. He wanted to flee. But he needed to cut a deal first, or at least renegotiate an existing one._

"_You'll pardon me, Lord Frey, if I don't abide by the terms of the bargain you made with my lady wife."_

_The serpent's eyes widened, then just as suddenly hooded themselves warily; focusing through narrowed, papery lids on not Ned, trying to decide whether the man before him was still prey or now suddenly the hunter. "My Lord," he said with a dry, brittle rattle. "You were imprisoned. Sacred oaths were made with her before the Seven to ally our two houses together. The strength of House Frey aides the North in good faith of our pledge to the coming union with your heirs. Where is the honor? Where is Lord Stark's honor in breaking his lady wife's sworn word?"_

"_Lady Catelyn met with you on the twenty fifth. I arrived in White Harbor on the twenty fourth? There was no longer a question of imprisonment. You may ask any of my Manderly banners. And what is the Seven to me? I am of the North. We worship the Old Gods. The Old Gods who freed me, returned me, set me on the path I must follow."_

_The withered creature smiled, correctly scenting the possibility of an opening. "Since you are here, praise your Old Gods, then there is no need for my banners to aid the North in freeing you, is there Lord Stark?"_

_Sean didn't blink, didn't respond at all, just kept looking icely out of his well-practiced 'Ned face.' The actor banked on the presence of Helman Tallhart beside him and the hundreds of Northerners within the Twins as all the evidence necessary to Walder Frey that he could not so easily turn his scaly back on him._

_Seeing no reaction, the miserable creature cleared his throat before "But you spoke of a path. Perhaps there is some way my House could assist you on it."_

_Not Ned nodded. "The men under Lord Bolton march into Tywin Lannister's trap. I would spring a trap of my own to beard the Old Lion."_

"_That would be a fine trick, if you could pull it off, Lord Stark," the snake agreed, not bothering to hide his doubts about the idea._

_Sean showed a hint of a smile. "You could help me make it so," he said. "The Twins sits on the Green Fork. And though your house's strength comes from the tolls you collect from those seeking to cross your bridge, surely you must have access to a fair number of boats?"_

_The serpent's greedy eyes unhooded. His tongue slid out a moment, tasting victory in the air. "Perhaps. Perhaps. If they could be found, what would you do with them?"_

"_Make two temporary bridges across the river, a day's march apart from each other. The boats for the first bridge must wait in secret on the west bank of the Green Fork until the Lannisters march past on their way north. The first bridge when it is erected must be near a place on the east bank where the Kingsroad narrows and climbs through rough, hilly lands."_

"_And when the Lion's knights find themselves cut off from behind, they would have to charge piecemeal uphill onto northern spears," Walder Frey cackled with malevolent glee, clearly seeing the stratagem. "Yes, I know of such a place. You're a sly warrior, Lord Stark. But are you still honorable? Will you keep to your lady wife's terms?" he demanded._

_Not Ned gave a long pause. "Yes … and no."_

"_What?" the ancient serpent hissed._

"_I will choose my son's wife. Here and now. Within the hour. And whomever I select will leave on the morrow for Riverrun, following the route my son took south from here."_

_For once Walder Frey looked suspicious. "There has been no word from Riverrun."_

"_The Old Gods speak to me, Lord Frey," not Ned declared, putting on his best biblical voice. "From every tree and rock that I pass, they whisper to me; show me what was, what is, and what will be. Tomorrow, on the dawn of the new year, Robb shall capture the Kingslayer. And on the day after he shall break the siege of Riverrun, drowning and slaughtering the Old Lion's banners by the thousands."_

_The old snake nodded his head in seeming agreement, but wariness again hooded his eyes. "And what of my boy Elmar and your girl Arya?"_

"_That betrothal is over."_

_Lord Frey scowled._

"_A Frey shall marry one of my daughters, worry not Lord Frey, I give you my word. But I shall choose who marries either Sansa or Arya. I will watch your sons carefully as they trod down the path with me. And whichever one earns my greatest trust, I will bequeath with both a daughter and a new lordship crafted from out of Winterfell's domains."_

_The evil bastard tried to haggle further, but Sean simply gave him the icy Ned glare. Soon enough the parade of eligible, if not so nubile, daughters and granddaughters and even great granddaughters began. At the naming of 'Roslin', he called a halt to the proceedings and pointed at the fresh faced, pert girl. "Her," he said. 'Let's hope Robb sees in you the same things George had Edmure see in you,' he thought. "Have her on the road south tomorrow, Lord Frey. Now kindly arrange for fresh horses, a map of the Green Fork, and someone to ride with me who can show me where the boat bridges will be built. You have seven days, Lord Frey. Seven days to put things in place. Now I'm off to find Lord Bolton." With only a vague sense of relief he left the serpent's den in search of the flayed man._

* * *

A bevy of lords and one golden prisoner stood on the raised platform. Sean freely admitted to himself that despite eight weeks of harsh treatment and outright abuse Jaime Lannister still outshone every man jack of them. The son of a bitch oozed charisma and vitality.

"My Lord," the greying man protested, the pain and anger in his voice palpable. "You can't set the Kingslayer free!"

"Lord Rickard, look about you," not Ned said reasonably. "We pen King's Landing in by land, and in a few days King Stannis shall block them by sea. Where can they go?"

The Lord of the Karhold expressed his dissatisfaction with a deep growl.

Sean sighed to himself. By rights the Lord of Winterfell should have been chastising the man for the obstinacy he showed his liege, but the actor remembered the Karstarks oath breaking in the books brought on by Cat's stupid release of the Kingslayer. While he knew his position was stronger than Robb's had been, he did intend to swap the sister fucker and if that meant acting contrary to Nedness to keep the Karstarks in the fold, so be it. "Cousin, you'll have ample time to seek vengeance on the Kingslayer for your sons deaths once the walls have fallen and we're into the Red Keep."

"I'd be happy to give any of you a fair fight right now," the Kingslayer declared. "You needn't even unlock me." He shook his manacles. "Just give me a blade and I'll do the rest." He haughtily looked around at the Northern and Riverland lords gathered near him, before setting his gaze on not Ned. "Your leg looks healthy enough now Stark. Dare to test me?"

Sean smirked back at the egotistical bastard, unmoved by the direct challenge to his manhood. The actor had no illusions of who'd win that fight. "Jon, rattle his chains."

The Lord of the Last Hearth looked a bit confused at the order, then a giant, unchained smile of understanding split the Greatjon's huge, hairy puss.

The clanking of the shackles drowned out the sound of the arrogant cock's bones knocking together.

When the Greatjon at last released the Kingslayer's neck, letting him drop the foot or so to the platform's floor, the prisoner barely kept upright; staggering from dizziness and having his brains sloshed around inside his pretty skull.

Sean stepped up and said pleasantly, "Now mind your manners."

The Kingslayer responded by spitting on not Ned.

A juicy wad dribbled down his cheek. Rage boiled up instantly inside the lad from Sheffield. He punched the sister fucking shit as hard as he could in the gut.

A weak "ooohf" escaped the Kingslayer's lips.

Sean grimaced. His hand hurt. 'What kind of eight minute abs of steel does this bastard have?' he wondered. Then suddenly he saw stars. The son of a bitch had head butted him.

Immediately Greatjon and several others latched on to the Kingslayer, restraining him.

Sean swiped a hand above his eyebrow. Blood. Instinctively he surged forward snapping his head.

Crack!

A gush of crimson gushed out of the Kingslayer's broken nose.

A quick survey of the damage didn't satisfy the riled Yorkshireman. Not Ned jerked up his knee.

The "OOOOOooooooohhhhhhfffffff" that burst from the Kingslayer's mouth was anything but weak.

"Try to fuck Cersei with your tackle now," he snarled.

All the lords, Rickard Karstark most of all, howled with glee and made coarse jokes as the manacled golden boy unsuccessfully tried to cup his brutalized parts through piss stained pants.

As his 'friends' pounded him the back for a prank well played, all Sean could think was, "They're mad, all of them. I'm bloody surrounded by madmen.'


	8. Chapter 7 - Robb (I)

**Robb (I)**

Robb trudged along with only his squire Wendel Frey for company to the small herd of horses picketed nearest his and Roslin's tent, the source of his lateness and public shaming. The young man hid his petulance at the ignoble task his father had assigned him behind the traditional Stark mask, an icy glare. He felt like a boy back in Winterfell again; being sent off to run the bellows for Mikken or helping Hodor to muck out the stables for Hullen or counting the number of barrels of salted meat in the underground storage vaults for Vayon Poole as punishment for some childish prank gone awry. Resentment bubbled up inside of him, despite the fact he knew he'd erred. 'Wasn't I the King of the North?' he told himself. 'Even if only for five scary, exhilarating days.' And now he was relegated to scouting for shit. It chaffed at his soul.

* * *

"_Maester Vyman," Olyvar muttered close to his ear._

_Robb looked up from the maps and sheaves of parchment spread across the high table he shared with his Uncle Edmure in Riverrun's Great Hall. The old maester was working his way through the bustling crowd of lordlings, knights, and stewards men at work, a slim parchment roll held in the man's age spotted hand._

"_Raven," the King of the North, uttered, causing his uncle to stop in midsentence and follow his new liege lord's gaze to see what had distracted him from their deliberations._

_The six days since his forces had broken the castle's siege and freed his uncle from the Lannisters had been almost as hectic as the battle itself. The remnants of the dozen thousand Westerlands army were either fleeing west towards refuge at Golden Tooth or east in hopes of joining Tywin Lannister's even larger army. Regardless, the scum were raping and pillaging the smallfolk on their way and needed to be stop. And that was only a small problem compared to the much thornier one of what to do about the Old Lion himself. Ravens flew and messengers rode constantly all across the Riverlands to discover whose castles and holdfasts remained intact and capable of tithing supplies and men-at-arms, or better yet knights, to the army Robb was trying to gather here. The North could no longer free his father, murdered by that vile wretch Joffrey, but they howled for vengeance which could only be succored by Lannister blood; as did his grandfather's banners for their homeland shattered beneath the weight of the Lion._

"_Hopefully Maester Vyman brings good news this time, your Grace," Edmure commented dubiously. So far the response to the Tully's call for aid from their banners had been stifling slow._

_The King of the North's mind echoed his uncle's gloom. The day after the Battle of the Camps, as the men were calling it, the effective forces left to confront the enemy should they return were four thousand mounted Northerners, near eight hundred mounted Freys and Mallisters, and from within Riverrun itself: fifteen hundred Tully men-at-arms and a mixed bag of four hundred predominantly Tully, Blackwood, Piper, Bracken, and Vance knights and mounted men-at-arms. Luckily in defeat the Lannister army had coughed up over two hundred captured knights and lordlings, as well as a thousand turncoat Tyroshi free riders. The next day Ser Marq Piper, Lord Vance, and Lord Bracken had each returned leading two hundred, three hundred, and four hundred men a horse respectively. Over the next five days another two thousand men-at-arms, routed weeks back by the Kingslayer in the battle which had captured the heir to Riverrun, had straggled back in, most devoid of arms and armor; as had another four hundred riders. The young man currently had plenty of cavalry, seventy seven hundred of it, but sore lacked for pikes, shields, axes, and bows with less than four thousand total a foot._

_Many eyes in the Great Hall glimpsed up from their work in anticipation, watching the maester slowly climb the stairs to the high table. The only being in the long room who seemed disinterested was Grey Wind, who laid curled up beneath Robb's feet gnawing at a bone._

"_From the Twins, your Grace," the old man said respectfully, bowing as he reached out with the sealed missive._

"_Lord Bolton?" Edmure gasped._

_Robb too caught his breath. The fate of the northmen he'd placed under the quiet, clever Lord of the Dreadfort's command had been the unspoken grumkin in the room to all their planning. 'Do I still have a second army?' he wondered desperately. With a surprisingly steady hand the King of the North took the parchment and slid a rough edged fingernail beneath the pressed wax to discover what it said. Immediately, a second, smaller parchment roll fell out, landing on the table. "Tallhart," Robb muttered, seeing three sentinel trees pressed into the wax, before he started reading._

_**Lord Robb,**_

'_Lord Robb? Did that greedy, old wretch send the raven before mine own arrived proclaiming my victory and kingship?' As he began to read further, the King of the North could hear Walder Frey's evil cackle in every word._

_**Six days ago I gave audience to your father, the Lord of Winterfell. Yes, 'twas the Lord Eddard Stark. I may be old and my legs crippled, but my eyes and ears work just fine.**_

'_What?!' Robb couldn't believe the words leaping off the parchment at him. Stunned, he nevertheless continued, but now with shaking hand._

_**While your lord father already knew and approved of your plan for Riverrun, I waited for word from your raven before sending this news and my congratulations to my future good son on his martial success.**_

'_How did father know? Where did he come from? We heard they'd killed him, the Lannister whoresons.'_

_**Lord Stark quickly left me to take command of the rest of you Northerners and mine own men-at-arms elsewhere. He intends to draw the lions closer before bringing them to battle. A clever plan he has, but more I cannot say; ravens have been known to fly amiss. If you doubt my words, read your banner Ser Tallhart's letter. As we await word of Lord Stark's victory, there is another matter …**_

"_What does it say, Ro … your Grace?" Edmure asked urgently._

_Robb threw Walder Frey's letter down on the table and snatched at Hellman Tallhart's note, all the while blurting, "He lives. My father lives."_

"_What?! How!?"_

"_Lord Frey doesn't say!" He grabbed the smaller scrap of rolled parchment and broke the seal. "Just that my father is taking command from Roose Bolton and means to best the Lannnisters in battle!"_

_Edmure scooped up the fallen letter to read for himself the incredible turn of events proclaimed by the 'late' Lord of the Twins._

_The Great Hall began filling with shouts of wonder and confusion as Robb started reading his loyal banner's brief message._

_**Lord Robb, 'Twas the happiest day of my life to see your great lord father ride into the Twins with a Manderly escort. His arrival is a miracle of the Old Gods. He knew of yours and your lady mother's shrewd plans, as if he'd sat in our very councils during the march south and bargained alongside Lady Catelyn with Lord Frey. What's more, he prophesized your victories and the capturing of the Kingslayer. Now he plans to beard the Lion. With the Old Gods by his side our victory is assured!**_

_**\- Ser Helman Tallhart, Master of Torrhen's Square**_

_Relief, joy, and love flowed through him all at once. Tears sprang from his eyes. But in a loud clear voice, cutting through the growing din, Rob Stark proclaimed, without realizing it meant his own demise as King of the North, "My father lives! Lord Eddard Stark has returned!"_

_A roar swept Riverrun's Great Hall. Many of the Northmen started chanting "Stark! Stark! Stark!" as they clapped hands and stomped feet._

_Robb felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see it was his Uncle Edmure's hand. The fingers of the man's other hand grasped Walder Frey's letter._

_Edmure leaned close to his nephew, so he could be heard over the growing tumult. "And your about to become a husband too," he said._

_The beaming smile on Robb's face faltered slightly and his eyebrows rose in surprise._

_Edmure nodded. "Yes, your father has amended the marriage contract Catelyn made with the old snake. Walder's already sent the daughter Eddard chose for you. You're supposed to marry her as soon as she arrives here."_

_Robb's jaw dropped._

"_Her name's Roslin. Lord Walder thinks she'll prove quite fertile."_

_The young man turned away from his uncle and towards his squire. "Olyvar, go find my lady mother!"_

* * *

Well he hadn't really wanted the title anyway; except that damned Greatjon had gone and opened his big fool of a mouth during the first grand council inside the freed Riverrun. And then all his other fool banners had added their voices to the cry. He'd seen the surprise on his mother's face as they'd chanted 'King of the North! King of the North!' at him. A surprise matched equally by his own. Finally, even Uncle Edmure's banners had joined in too. What could he do? He'd had to accept or lose their allegiance, and so he had. 'Most men look to be led,' his father had frequently explained to him. 'Make the best decision in the time you have, but there's little use in worrying over much about it after, just get on with it. You'll find that acting on even a poor decision almost always beats dithering. Besides, men stop looking to a leader who won't make a decision or hold to one.'

"Which mount would you like today, my lord?" Wendel asked as the two of them approached the line of tied up destriers, quarter horses, and hunters grazing at the sparse grasses within their tethered reach.

"Night's Sky," he answered, identifying his black hunter; a decision that set Wendel to scamper off in search of some idle hands to help him carry, set, and fasten two saddles. Robb found the boy to be not a bad squire, far from it; his failure to wake him on time this morning aside. The twelve year old knew his duties and performed the more difficult ones doggedly enough. But the lad was a far cry from the companion and clever counselor Robb had had in his last squire, the boy's older half-brother Olyvar. Well, possibly not Olyvar and his wife's half-brother, if Roslin's gossip that Walder Frey's seventh wife, Annare Farring, spent more time bedding her husband's great grandson Black Walder than she did him held any truth.

Admittedly, even with Olyvar knighted and acting as the senior deputy of his father's newfangled 'staff,' Robb still saw his friend often. And Olyvar, along with his other two full blood brothers in the army, Sers Perwyn and Benfrey, did frequently stop by the tent to spend time with him and their full blood sister Roslin.

In fact, since Darry, where Robb had formally handed over his victorious army to his father and finally wedded Roslin (fool him for waiting so long), a plethora of Freys regularly called on him and Roslin, usually unannounced. He supposed before, when he was their warlord and only contracted to marry any one of the large number of his now good father' many eligible daughters, it was proper that his dealings with House Frey only went through Ser Stevron, Lord Walder's heir. Now, even though he was a Stark, the Freys were his good family through Roslin and happy to have them as such, regardless of his earlier obstinacy towards the idea.

"Ready, my lord," Wendel called out from beside Night's Sky.

Robb quickly climbed up, instinctively checking that all was right with both his horse and his gear. Satisfied, he stared off into the distance over the seemingly endless rows of tents, waiting for his squire to mount too.

"Where to first, my lord?" Wendel asked.

"An excellent question," Robb muttered to himself.

* * *

"_Do we abide by the command?" the Blackfish asked._

_The flames blazing in the fireplace kept the chill of summer's longest nights at bay inside the small audience chamber above the Great Hall. Four chairs were pulled together beneath the high seat so two Starks and two Tullys could discuss the latest missive from the Twins. Just three days earlier, Robb as King of the North would have automatically taken his place on the high seat. But now it sat vacant, leaving the young man with an odd sensation._

"_It could all be a trick," Edmure suggested. "Have us move our reconstituted army to where Tywin Lannister can smash it in one fell swoop. End the war once and for all without bothering to siege every castle and holdfast that choose to honor their oaths to our house._

_Robb kept his face still. The Riverlands were already broken, and by the slow response of his grandfather's banners in heeding the call to rally at Riverrun, he doubted many would refuse to bend the knee should a pack of Westerlanders arrive at their gates._

"_T'would be an overly elaborate trick at that, brother," Catelyn countered. "We've been over this before. No doubt Walder Frey is a wily snake, but for such a ruse to've worked, he'd need to murder all the Tallharts we left his own castle, conspire secretly with the Old Lion, ensure Roose Bolton's decisive defeat, and be willing to let us have half his sons as hostages. Oh, and apparently a daughter too, not that he'd care much about her, I fear. No, odd as all this seems, Eddard has returned and broken the Lannisters along the Green Fork." Her smile as she spoke those last words gave the clearest indication of the depths of her conviction._

_The Young Wolf frowned. "Still, I like it not. Why such a brief message from father? And where was his sigil on it?"_

_The Blackfish chuckled. "Escape he must've from some black cell, but I doubt the Queen and her minions let him keep his signet ring, nor Ice either, for company there. T'was clever of him to use the next best thing and have the marks of Houses Bolton, Cerwyn, and Hornwood on his parchment. Or are you thinking all three lords have foresworn you along with the Freys?"_

"_No, I suppose not," he replied, though he truly didn't know what he was supposed to think. "I still don't like the idea of marching right away for Darry."_

"_Nor I," Edmure echoed. "We've not enough men-at-arms or supplies yet, and still too many prisoners to guard."_

"_And there may be more Lannisters gathering at Golden Tooth," the Blackfish added. "I'd hate to walk out the front door and leave the back unguarded."_

"_Aye," Edmure agreed quickly_

"_So send Marq Piper and Karyl Vance back to their lands with orders to keep a westward eye on things," Catelyn proposed._

_Brynden Tully nodded sagely. "They could drive off any garrisons still in Pinkmaiden and Wayfarer's Rest. Start repairs. Hopefully send us a few supplies if they can spare them. Drive off any bandits or still fleeing bands of Lannisters. It would be a sign to the banners that the Tullys care about their lands as much as we do our own."_

_Edmure pursed his lips. "I'd lose close to a thousand horse and foot. We need more men, not less. And what of our other houses? Will Tytos Blackwood and Jonos Bracken then not ask for the same?"_

"_Then what do you propose, brother?" Catelyn asked, frustration showing in her tone._

"_I know not," Edmure replied grumpily._

_Unlike three days ago, Robb could no longer order his uncle what to do. And truth be told, he empathized with him. He didn't like being told what to do either. According to scouts, his bride, this Roslin creature, would arrive on the morrow; and then he'd be forced to marry her. While he'd accepted the need for ties with House Frey, he hadn't expected it to happen so soon. From the first, he'd secretly hoped something, anything would happen to render the betrothal moot. He liked his squire Olyvar very much, and old Ser Stevron seemed a bluff, hale enough fellow, but most of the rest of Walder Frey's lot seemed … he shivered, words failing him. He could only imagine what a shrew this Roslin must be. Desperation now aided inspiration. "Uncle, how soon until you think you could march to Darry as my father … requests?"_

"_The earliest?"_

"_Yes."_

"_The very earliest?" Edmure frowned, then pursed his lips again. "Well … perhaps a week. What say you, uncle?"_

_The Blackfish's eyes wandered a moment as he thought, then he slowly nodded his head. "Yes. That would be better. Just, though."_

"_And when did father say he'd arrive at the Ruby Ford? Ten days after the battle, so six from today?" Robb asked._

_The other's murmured their agreement with his calculations._

_He smiled. "Mother, if Uncle Edmure can arrange a suitable boat, I want you to meet father at the Ruby Ford."_

_A knowing and happy smile split Catelyn's lips. "To ensure it's really him and thus gain Edmure an extra week's preparation?"_

_Robb nodded._

_Edmure smiled._

"_You've a sly son, niece," the Blackfish commented with approval. "Darry's only a half day away. You could send us a raven, if they still have any."_

_As she imagined seeing, touching her husband again, Cat's smile widened. "If it's agreed, I'll go then," she declared._

'_And you won't be here to order me to marry that hag, Roslin,' the Young Wolf thought. He had gained himself two weeks. 'A lot can happen in two weeks,' he told himself._

* * *

"Bofors," Robb said, greeting the tough Umber captain.

"Milord," he answered back respectfully enough. This one hadn't ridden with him to Riverrun, but fought alongside his father at the Green Fork.

"Any problems, Bofors?" he asked casually while purposefully looking around to see what the unchained giants of Last Hearth were doing. And in particular, where they were shitting.

"Nay, milord. Men're happy ta not be marching. Be t'happier once we got stuck into them cowardly lions yonder," and the man gestured towards the city walls. "Sooner we get a new King, the sooner we can go home. Winter is coming."

If the ugly man sporting an unlanced boil on his neck thought repeating the Stark motto to Robb would earn him any appreciation, he was wrong. While marching south from Darry, the army had received word from some middling castle along the way that the Maesters of Old Town had sent out their white ravens announcing autumn. Winter was in fact coming. The nights were getting colder and he was stuck sleeping in a chilly tent all so that a man who wasn't even here could claim the Iron Throne. Robb had been a King, and he'd won that crown on the field of battle. Where was this Stannis? 'At least I have Roslin to keep me warm,' he thought.

* * *

"_Lord Robb," Ser Stevron protested, "the agreement struck between my lord father and your lord father was that you were to marry my sister Roslin as soon as she arrived. And here she is!" The aging but still spry warrior grabbed the girl, lifting her off her feet and thrusting her toward her betrothed._

_The girl, obviously nervous, kept her face tucked down, staring at the floor as her face turned beat red._

_The Young Wolf kept a courteous demeanor on his face. "Ser, I gave my word of honor as a Stark that I would marry a Frey. And I fully intend to keep my word."_

"_Then why the delay? Here she is. As pretty a chit as any lord could hope to bed," Ser Stevron proclaimed for all in shouting distance to hear._

_Truth be told, this Roslin did not appear to be the hideous crone Robb had feared she'd be. Slender, with long mousy brown hair framing a pale white face sprinkled with just a hint of freckles. Big brown eyes, starting to turn red as tears formed at their inner corners, right above a slender nose._

"_Say something to your future lord husband, Roslin," her eldest brother commanded gruffly._

"_If it pleases, my lord," she whispered, trying a curtsey despite Ser Stevrons large, age spotted hands clutched hard to her shoulders. "I will work ever so hard to please you and bear you many … many an heir," she concluded with a squeak, revealing a small gap between her two upper front most teeth._

_Robb inclined his head once towards her. He put as kindly a face on as he could muster. "My lady, it will please me, greatly, to join you with my house." _

_She smiled tentatively back at him, stifling a sniffle._

_Encouraged, he continued. "You are a gem, the brown moonstone of the Twins. My father chose wisely in selecting you to be my bride. Yet that is the very reason we must wait."_

_Ser Stevron scowled. "What nonsense is this? If you find her so grand, all the more reason for a bedding this very night, I say, my lord." The entire pack of Frey weasels yelped their agreement._

_Unfortunately their cries elicited a response from the Young Wolf's pack. Grey Wind stood up beside Robb and let out with a low growl._

_Roslin yipped in fear, feet churning against the sandstone floor of the Great Hall to try and push both her and her grasping eldest brother backwards away from the beast. Thankfully, Ser Stevron concurred with Roslin's opinion and took several steps backward himself, dragging the girl with him._

_Robb hid his smile, but knew his victory this day was assured. "It would be a disservice to my lord father and my lady mother if such a jewel as your sister were to join with my House while they are not present."_

"_But Lord Stark himself insisted the marriage happen immediately," the heir of the Twins resolutely persisted in the face of a direwolf._

_The Young Wolf drew himself up to his full height and spoke in his most commanding voice. "And I say Ser Stevron, with no disrespect intended to your noble House, that I shall marry your sister, the lovely Roslin, immediately, once we are all reunited with the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in Darry. Would your father, Lord Frey, find two more weeks so late?"_

_The aging knight stared long and hard at the man who had been his King, if only briefly. "No," he at last barked._

"_Thank you, Ser Stevron, I have always counted on your wisdom and sage advice," he announced, extending a peace offering._

_The man nodded briefly back._

_Seeing its acceptance, though begrudging, he turned his attention back to his bride. "Fair Roslin, in marrying me you become a part of my family's pack. And as you can see, my pack already includes a direwolf. All of this will undoubtedly take quite a lot of getting used to, don't you agree?"_

"_Yes, my lord," she whispered back, clearly very afraid._

"_You can use the journey to Darry to get to know me and Grey Wind here better." He looked down at his wolf brother, and said, "Isn't that right?"_

_The direwolf promptly looked up at the frightened girl and then took a step towards her, sniffing the air."_

_Roslin trembled._

"_He's just smelling you," Robb said, trying to soothe her. "Stick your hand out so he can …"_

_And then Grey Wolf was by her side, long rough tongue licking one shaking hand. _

'_Damn,' he thought. 'That's surprising.'_

* * *

'Such a fool I was,' he thought, lamenting the wasted two weeks. 'Well, they weren't completely wasted.' They had gotten to know one another a bit, despite all the demands on his time organizing and then leading the march to Darry alongside his uncle Edmure. Roslin had proven to have a naturally sweet disposition and her kind, accepting behavior had tempered his deep seated worries about the marriage. Thus at their bedding, he had found it within himself to be gentle in taking her maidenhead. And subsequently she'd reciprocated his baser desires, being as interested in joining with him as he was to lay with her. 'The Freys' hurt feelings aside, it couldn't have worked out better.'

"So as you can see, my Lord," Ser Tristan said, one hand pointing in several places all in a row, "our water supplies are well away from the temporary middens."

"Oh, not that we haven't whipped a few of the lads who got sloppy, so to speak," old Ser Elston Perryn chortled, after Ser Tristan he was second in command of House Ryger's three hundred strong contingent. "And that lazy squire who thought it too far to walk this morning with his lord's night bucket."

The two knights' words brought Robb out of his day dream.

"I fought in good King Robert's rebellion alongside your father, Lord Robb," the old knight continued to blabber. "A more clever warlord and one more concerned about the welfare of his banners I never saw; and all know the respect I hold for dear Lord Hoster, your grandfather, so that's a saying something."

"Yes," Robb replied neutrally, a pleasant enough smile plastered on his face. He still got his fair share of complements for the Whispering Wood and the Battle of the Camps, but everybody loved his father, the Victor of the Green Fork, the Lion Slayer, the Mountain Breaker, the Old God's Gift. In his hearing at least his father could do no wrong.

"So if Lord Stark says Stannis must be King, then that's who I fight for. If Lord Stark says shit here, then that's where me and my boys will squat. If Lord Stark says …"

'And if Lord Stark calls me Rich, then my name must no longer be Robb,' he thought snidely, for in fact he'd caught his father on a few occasions calling him 'Rich." Sure, with three brothers he was used to the odd shout of Jon (though never by mother), Bran, and Rickon. He'd even once gotten a Theon, which had left a bemused grin on his absent friend's face for a week. 'And why had father command Theon to remain behind in Riverrun, truly?' Luckily the slips of the tongue had never included his being called Sansa or Arya. Theon never would have let him live that down. But 'Rich?' Robb stopped himself from shaking his head in bewilderment, while at least acknowledging the name did sound a bit like a shortened version of Rickon. He hoped his youngest brother was alright. He'd heard through mother that one of father's 'visions' had shown him the little man bereft from the absence of so much of the family.

"… so you tell your lordly father what I said, if you please, Lord Robb," the old man at last finished.

"And pass my regards too, if you will," Ser Tristan added.

Robb smiled back at the younger knight, he was one of Uncle Edmure's childhood friends, always ready with a quip. Robb had dealt with him enough to approve of the man.

"I shall Sers," he announced. "But before I do, I fear there's plenty more men I must go watch shit," he announced only half-jokingly, his punishment duty far from being over yet.

The pair laughed at his apparent jape in parting.

Robb refrained from joining in, for twenty five thousand men and a third that number of horses generated a ridiculous amount of waste. He gave a gentle prod to Night's Sky and set off towards the next group of men who fought directly under the command of the Tully Fish and not some other Riverlands magnate, a smallish troop of men from Acorn Hall if their banner didn't lie. Then, and not for the first time that morning, he wondered where Grey Wind was. It had been the wolf's return from a night's hunting that had woken him, Roslin, and lazy Wendel out of their slumbers. His brother never joined him for the morning staff meeting with his father, but invariably seemed to appear soon afterward. Not today though.


	9. Chapter 8

He watched Robb wiggled out from between two of the long, sharp stakes fronting the trench and bulwark of the siege line. His not son straightened up and promptly began marching over to where the Lord of Winterfell, a place the actor had only ever visited on set, stood at the foot of the tall platform the Umbers had constructed. For the second day, but only the first full morning, the golden and slightly bloodied form of Jaime Lannister dominated the top of the stage, on show for all King's Landing to see. Though from Sean's perspective, not Niko was more importantly on show for the disgraced knight's overly loving sister Cersei to see.

As he dabbed at his own slightly bloodied head, Grey Wind followed after his master, his brother (?), and slithered easily between some stakes too. 'Jesus,' Sean thought for the thousandth time. 'The beast's as big as a warg. Peter's warg, not George's. Warg means something else here entirely. Well almost entirely, it still involved wolves .. sort of … some of the time,' he thought, trying to wrap his head around the intricate details of this messed up universe that the stout white haired author, fucking George, had created. 'Worse luck me,' the actor continued, 'it's all bloody real.' And didn't he feel it, his head still hurt from the Casterly Kiss to his rock. 'I gave better than I got,' he told himself. 'At least I've got my armor to keep me safe.' The actor instinctively went to pat the life protecting plate mail gift and suddenly got a chill. He hadn't worn it the last two days, not since they'd set up the siege, believing himself safe and not wanting to lug about the extra weight of it.

"My Lord," not Rich said stoically, at last entering the small circle of guards, aides, and lordlings surrounding his father. He dropped a quick bob of his head to show his respects. "My lords," he repeated politely, sharing quick looks with those leaders present, many of whom only weeks earlier had followed him as their liege.

"Robb," not Ned at last replied in acknowledgement, before asking, "Any problems in the camp?"

A few of the Northerners looked like they wanted to snicker, word had spread quickly that the boy had gotten on his father's shit list, so to speak. But they'd all learned during the march south from Castle Darry that Lord Stark now took his, and everyone else's, shit very seriously; deathly so.

"No, my Lord. All seems properly laid out in accordance with your waste laws," Robb said with the solemnity of a teen acting older than his years.

"Good," he responded. "Come walk with me Robb, let us see if the Dragon Gate shows any signs of soon opening." When Olyvar and few others of his Special Protection Branch detail went to follow them, the actor waived them off, he meant to be alone a moment with his not son. His aides frowned, but obeyed.

"Yes, my Lord," not Rich answered with some enthusiasm, clearly hoping to be released from his father's garde-robe.

The pair started strolling in the direction of the city's immense walls. And where Robb went, so too did his direwolf. Sean kept a careful eye on the beast, who as usual never liked to come too close to the actor. The direwolf's odd but nonaggressive behavior towards him had come as a relief. After surviving the Battle of the Green Fork, not Ned's greatest dread had been about his first meeting with the dire wolf. Portraying a character believably, taking on a role as second skin, was an actor's goal. And he thought of himself as a damned fine one. Certainly good enough to bluff his way through with most of the hayseeds who automatically assumed by sight that he was Lord Eddard Stark. Yet, if any being could expose him as a doppelganger of the true Lord of Winterfell, he had worried it would be one of George's almost supernaturally attuned mega wolves. Sean harbored few doubts how kindly those exceedingly large and sharp teeth would take to discovering his usurpation of head of the Stark pack. Thankfully the beast seemed even more wary of him than he was of it. Of course that still left Summer, Shaggy Dog, and Ghost to account for in the future; oh, and Nymeria too if Arya's wishes were ever met.

Finally pausing, not Ned asked in a quiet, kind voice, "You're not going to be late again, are you, Robb?"

"No, father. I swear I shan't," not Rich promised fervently.

"Good. I believe you. I don't mind how frequently you practice with Roslin at making me a grandchild," he said, causing not Rich to blush a shade complementary to his Tully auburn hair. Nevertheless he kept going, this time in a sterner tone. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again on my time. It makes the both of us look poorly in front of our banners. Understand?"

Robb bit his lip at the relatively mild chastisement while nodding his agreement.

* * *

_The four unhappy faces at last tepidly nodded their heads up and down, acknowledging their lord's command, but clearly revealing how opposed their hearts they were to this order. Sean didn't care, he meant to stay alive in this hellish world. And to do that the actor needed to win; not just today but the next day and the next and the next, until the Lannisters and all the other crazy bastards in his way were wiped out. To accomplish that he needed his lords, brutal men trained and smarter than him in the ways of war, to survive, even for now that treacherous leech Bolton._

_Thankfully not Ned also knew a few classic battle tricks thanks to his many military roles and vociferous reading habits, and he would use all that he'd learned. Their urges to charge down at the Lannisters as they came at them piecemeal fell on deaf ears; he refused to give up the high ground, his orders were not up for debate. Each lord had his assigned place in the line of battle. Lord Roose would control the Dreadfort, Rills, and Barrowland levies on the far left. Lord Medger would direct the Cerwyn, Winterfell, and White Harbor banners on the far right. In two large blocks in the woods just past the either end of the line, large numbers of archers would pepper the approaching foe with flights of arrows. They lacked the powerful English longbows of old, but hopefully their curved staffs made of exotic northern wood would prove good enough for Sean's needs._

_In the middle, Lord Robbett would command the foot from the Deepwood, Torrhen's Square, and the Twins next to Lord Roose's troops. And Lord Halys would give the orders to the men of the Hornwood, the Karhold, and Widow's Watch; who would hold the line between Lord Medger and Lord Robbett's warriors. All four lords, each given fifty precious cavalry to place in their reserve, were charged under pain of flaying (an order that of course brought a pleased smile to that bastard Bolton) to stay out of the front line and to more importantly never, ever let their men leave the shield wall. Sean, like every good Englishman, even a lad from the old Danelaw, knew why William, and not Harold, had won at Hastings. He suspected that once the enemy had broken their teeth a few times on Northern steel, the wily Old Lion would try some ruse to break his banner's shield discipline._

_The actor playing at live war swallowed back on the bile edging up his throat and trying to spew out his mouth. He would command the main reserve, just over a thousand tough as nails bastards from the Last Hearth and one hundred horse. Satisfied by a last look, not Ned dismissed his four captains and spurred his piebald mount toward his own designated position behind the main line. The banners of House Umber waited by the tor which stood next to the Kingsroad, right where it passed over the top of the long sloping ridge on which the Northern army waited._

_Seeing his approach, several mailed riders wearing unchained giant surcoats trotted out from the unwashed mass of far, far northern barbarians gathered about the rock outcrop. "My Lord," rumbled the deep bass of the senior Umber captain, a hard ugly man named Bofor. "The lads ain't taking it well you don't trust'em to stand in the shield wall with the other houses."_

_The other five blood loving killers accompanying Bofor harrumphed their agreement._

"_Aye," he responded coolly, fixing them with his icy Ned glare. He'd gotten quite good at 'the look,' or at least he surmised so based on everyone's reaction when he whipped it out. This instance wasn't any different. The group tried to hide their uncomfortable squirms as he fixed eyes on each one for a long second. He said no more, just kept riding. They swung in around to join him, keeping mum; the debate apparently won by 'the look.'_

_The large crowd of weapon toting men in front of him parted, a few giving cheers at his appearance, others grumbling, and most simply speechless. He could smell a hint of alcohol in the air. More than one writer he'd read had talked of the need for even brave veteran men to stiffen their nerve with a nip or ten of something._

_Sean ignored them all, moving forward, deeper into their mass, wishing he could still his own jitters with a shot of something. When he reached the crest, he at last brought the black and white spotted war horse to a stop. Of all the mounts he'd straddled since his mysterious, inexplicable arrival in this maddening place, Sean liked this one best. He just hoped the stallion would keep its wits when the fighting started and not throw him, bite him, trample him, or basically in any way cause the death of Mrs. Bean's little boy._

_Not Ned looked south down the road, away from the enemy's van which was gathering into a massed column at the northern foot of the rise. He felt a moment of pleasure, even to his untrained eye the terrain screamed bloody murder to an attacker. The deceitful bastard Walder Frey had done well recommending this gold plated bitch of a narrowing, rising front for the North to make their stand against a Lannister assault._

"_Any word from Ser Kyle?" he asked loudly, but to no one in particular._

"_Everything still clear, my Lord," Bofors responded. "Just a few score more stragglers killed and couple of supply wagons he's liberated and sending up. Hope there's some ale in'em. Thirsty work a battle."_

_Ser Kyle Condon commanded the last fifty horse troops left to not Ned's force. They were scouting miles to his rear, making sure no unaccounted for Westerlands force was sneaking up on them from behind. Sean wasn't about to let his chance at victory get yanked away by a surprise buggering up the arse._

"_Men of the Last Hearth," he suddenly, dramatically boomed in his loudest, firmest stage voice as he at last turned to face them head on. "There!" And Sean yanked out his sword, pointing it toward the Lion banners a mile off. "Our foe. They will charge us, and break like waves against our northern brothers' shield wall." Not Ned swept the sword down the length of the line forming behind the field works on the narrowest point on the slope below. "But they will come again and come again, until the Mountain or the Strongboar or the Old Lion himself makes a breach among our brethren. Then Men of Umber, then, we here shall charge down upon them; to stem the tide and assure victory. If … if by doing so … we are marked to die, we are enow to do our North loss; and if to live, the fewer men, to the Men of the Last Hearth, the greater share of honor. The Old Gods will, I pray thee, wish not one man more to aid us. I am not covetous of gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; it yearns me not if men my surcoats wear. Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive. Wish not one more man! I would not lose so great an honor as one man more methinks would share from me. Proclaim it through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. He that shall live this day, and see old age will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say 'Tomorrow is the Green Fork.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say 'These wounds I had at the Green Fork.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot. But he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words – Ned Stark, Bolton, Cerwyn, Glover, Frey, Hornwood, Karstark, Flint, Manderly, and most honored of all, the giants of Umber – be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This story shall the good man tell his son; from this day to the end of the world. We in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. And gentle Sers in Westeros now-a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speak that fought with us this day beside the Green Fork."_

_A roar, louder than any crowd Sean had e'er before in his life heard, burst forth until his ears rang so hard he could not hear another sound._

* * *

Cough. Cough.

The slight, stooped, older man, accompanied by only a white cloak wearing knight and a squire bearing the white parley flag, smiled with nervous expectation down from his horse at the unmounted not Ned. The other two looked more anxious than anything else. Most likely because Sean had taken Robb and Grey Wind to this warm up act for the star performance he anticipated performing later. A dire wolf brought a lot of leverage to a negotiating table.

"And you are?" he said gruffily, eyes narrowed suspiciously

The toff blinked, looking confused and unsure of the situation. "Ahhhh …" Cough. Cough. "Lord Rosby, my … my Lord Stark," he said in tone to imply of course Sean couldn't possibly have forgotten who he was.

"Lord Rosby. I take it you were there at Baelor's Sept when Joffrey Water's ordered tongue-less Payne to chop my head off?"

The consumptive prat didn't seem to know how to respond to the question. His smile grew wider and more nervous until he stuttered out "K-k-k-king Joffrey …"

"Is the illegitimate offspring of the perverse, adulterous union between Cersei Lannister and her twin brother Jaime," not Ned cut in with icy hardness. Then he smiled cruelly, "But we're not here today to talk about the bastard Joffrey's status. I'll leave that to King Stannis when he arrives from Dragonstone. I do, however, want to discuss what is to be done with the Kingslayer."

Cough. Cough. "Yes, his Grace .." Cough. "… has instructed me to verify whether the prisoner you hold is," Cough. "as your herald announced, Ser Jaime. And if so," Cough, "… to discover your terms for returning his Grace's most beloved uncle to him." Upon finishing his little speech, the puffed up lordling dabbed at the dots of yellow phlegm his lung wracking exertions had retched up onto his lips.

"And are you satisfied?" not Ned demanded.

"Well …" Cersei's easily replaceable diplomat tarried.

Sean rolled his eyes and turned to the white cloak. "You, which of Cersei's honor-less lapdogs are you?"

The blond haired man scowled. Touchy honor besmirched the tool reactively reached for the pommel of his sword.

Grey Wind snarled, exposing very large, very sharp teeth.

The gauntleted hand quickly slipped off the blade handle.

"Well … ?" the actor asked quietly, with enough cold in his breath he thought he might see ice vapor slipping out his mouth. 'Damn, I'm getting good at Ned,' he congratulated himself.

"Ser Preston Greenfield," the armored knight answered, trying to sound haughty but coming across more as a petulant child.

"Ah yes. Forgive me, since the Old Gods reattached my head to my shoulders, my memory's become a bit spotty. Now take a long, hard look up there. If you don't recognize him, I'll have Lord Bolton cut off one of his fingers and bring it to. Maybe you can recognize your brother that way."

The backstabbing brute gazed up at the figure on the scaffold and frowned.

"Bring him closer to the edge!" Sean shouted.

Clasping the Kingslayer firmly by the neck, the Greatjon brought the prisoner to, and then over the edge. To the credit of his gigantic, and undoubtedly still very sore, balls, Jaime Lannister didn't kick or fuss at all as he dangled twenty plus feet in the air.

Preston Greenfield gulped and then regaining his compsure announce, "That's him. I recognize Ser Jaime."

"That's enough then Jon," the Lord of Winterfell commanded his strongest bannerman.

"But I was just starting to enjoy the view, Stark," the Kingslayer called out with amusement.

Sean did his best to ignore the bloody, but recklessly brave, arse. His own skull still ached from their encounter that morning.

Cough. Cough. "I shall advise his Grace that your prisoner …" Cough. "… is in fact his esteemed uncle. Now what terms do you …" Cough, "… propose as sufficient to exchange Ser Jaime?"

Not Ned waited, not answering. He just kept staring over the city wall at the distant image of the Red Keep atop its hill. He knew the answer, but nothing like some dramatic tension; however unnecessary to the plot line, to grab people's attention and put bums in the seats.

Cough. "My Lord … Stark," the toff prodded.

He lowered his gaze to give the phlegmatic wretch 'the look.' He enjoyed the power of watching the man quiver. "My first condition is that I will only negotiate with members of the Small Council."

Lord Rosby spread his hands. "My Lord," Cough, "the Small Council is very busy."

Sean resisted rolling his eyes. "Which is why I will give Lords Baelish and Varys until sunset to arrive, or come morning I'll have Lord Bolton gift Cersei one of her brother's fingers. Or better yet, something she might have an easier time recognizing, his cock."

"My Lord!" Rosby spluttered in protest while every one of the actor's banners in listening distance guffawed at the threat.

Sean ignored the commotion and bore straight on with his demands. "As such high ranking dignitaries, they'll need an appropriate escort. Have Clegane bring them. That's my second condition. I hear Joffrey's promoted his hound to the Kingsguard. I want to see what a white cloak does to a dog. Now be off with you and report to your mistress."

"My Lord!?" Rosby wailed in complaint.

Not Ned deliberately continued to ignore the man and turned to walk back to his flock of lords gathered around the Kingslayer's platform.

"My Lord!?"

"Oh by the Seven, Rosby!" shouted Jaime Lannister, "Go tell my sister before I kill you myself."


	10. Chapter 9

The besieged pride of lions waited until the last vestiges of the sun dipped low enough to turn the rosy stone of the Red Keep a vibrant crimson, a color befitting the Lannisters, before the Dragon Gate at last opened again. As the trio of envoys leisurely trotted out, Sean wondered how much of the delay in meeting his negotiating demands came from Cersei's haughty sense of gamesmanship and how much from Littlefinger and the Eunuch begging to let them stay out of the vengeful direwolf's den. Regardless, satisfied that the three mandated characters from this production of the 'Greek Tragedy of the Iron Throne' appeared to be coming, not Ned signaled to the Kingslayer's jailors to bring him off his singularly high stage and prepare the golden boy for his cameo in the next scene. The tough, arrogant son of a bitch wouldn't have much to say to the other surprise prisoners being kept off stage left while they waited for their cues. After only a few more minutes of watching things progress, Sean withdrew from the descending autumn chill into the main chamber of his immense pavilion, more a medieval conference room than a sleeping place.

"They come at last to speak with you, my lord husband?" Cat asked in a seemingly placid tone.

Not Ned gave a curt nod of his head in answer. 'Strange, it's only been a month, but I can read her already,' Sean thought, immediately noting the fierceness hiding just beneath the surface. Lady Catelyn Stark nee Tully had been steamed beyond all endurance when he first revealed to her the depths of Petyr Baelish's treachery. For a half hour the actor thought she had gone completely mental, causing him to well understand her transformation in the book to Lady Stoneheart. And even now, though he'd shared his plan for this meeting with her days ago, to prepare her for it, he still wasn't sure she wouldn't simply drive a dagger into Littlefinger's greedy, warped heart.

"About time, blast them," Edmure muttered, reaching again for reassurance in his goblet.

"Whether they know it or not, and they can't be so blind as to not see our siege lines," old Stevron Frey proclaimed, before continuing with a dry chuckle. "Lord Stark has them dangling in a cold North wind."

"Yes, winter is coming," whispered Roose, stealing the Stark family motto to describe the storm about to descend on their foes. "My Lord is full of surprises these days."

"And none of them bode well for the Lannisters," the Blackfish concurred.

That sentiment drew a general round of agreement from the other lords and sole lady not Ned had invited to participate in the parley. Maege Mormont, Medger Cerwyn, Jason Mallister, and his not son Robb all paused a moment in whatever quiet conversation they were having to laugh or make a denigrating comment about the Lion spawn or just raise the glass they were partaking of. Only Sean's aide Olyvar kept quiet, simply staying in the corner to dutifully watch the makeshift 'great' hall for unexpected danger.

As Sean wandered over to his seat beside Cat behind the mess board cum Westeros style conference table, he pondered the Sun Tzu saying 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer' with regards to Roose Bolton. He decided, regardless of the proverbs wisdom in general, the flaying lord's very presence would make the statement that this wasn't old honorable Ned his enemies would be dealing with. He snorted briefly. 'Will the arrogant buggers even notice or care?'

His ruminations were soon interrupted first by Grey Wind suddenly choosing to stand up and mover further away from Sean; and then, by the voice of his little angel. "Father," Arya called out softly from behind him and Cat.

Both he and not Michelle turned their heads in surprise to see a figure standing in the shadows through the flap leading to the couple's private sleeping chamber.

"Arya, you shouldn't be here," Cat lightly scolded her daughter. "How'd you get in there?"

"I lifted a peg and slid under the tent wall," she said matter of factly.

"Aren't you supposed to be with Merle?" Sean asked, wondering where his squire was; clearly not keeping a watchful eye on his daughter as ordered.

"Well …" not Maisie hemmed and hawed.

'Never send a boy to do the job of ten men,' Sean thought, shaking his head in amusement; causing cracks to appear on his Ned face.

Perhaps sensing she wasn't yet in much trouble, Arya boldly struck. "Let my attend too," she wheedled. "I have to find out what's happened to Sansa. Please?"

Against his will, Sean's well practiced icy demeanor melted.

* * *

_Cat clutched frantically at his arm._

_Sean grabbed her hand and yanked hard. "Come," he commanded. The pair stumbled out of their tent. "Horses!" not Ned bellowed._

_Olyvar, either being a seer or having heard the rumor used his cleverness to anticipate his Lord's thoughts, appeared out of nowhere with a pair of mounts._

_Not Ned threw not Michelle up on her dapper roan. Unphased, she scrabbled hard at reins and stirrups to stay atop the mare._

"_Where's Robb?!" he roared._

"_Getting his mount, my Lord," the young knight answered calmly._

_Not Ned leapt smoothly into the saddle on his graceful piebald, his heavy plate mail not slowing him in the least. In the past six weeks the actor, who'd already ridden plenty thanks to his varied historical roles, had seen his equestrian skills leap forward tenfold. He'd gotten strong too, truth to tell. Instinctively his body leaned forward and his feet moved to spur on his horse until a hand snatched hard at his reins. He looked down in rage at his aide de camp. "What?!" he snarled._

"_Not without proper escort, my Lord," Olyvar murmured quietly. "There may be lions out hunting."_

_Damnit, even through his sense of urgency, excitement, and anger, he realized the boy spoke the truth! Sean fought to become Ned again. "Hold!" he ordered._

"_Ned?!" Cat called in anguish. "What of Arya?!"_

"_She'd be disappointed if we foolishly got ourselves killed in our rush to see her, my lady," not Ned replied, hiding his own emotions as he tried to sooth hers._

_He soon heard Hallis Mollen's stolid tone calling out for Winterfell's Household guards. Further in the background, the deeper note of the Umberman Bofor's voice could be heard swearing at some men to mount faster._

_Feeling his icy face reasserting itself, he continued, "Five more minutes won't matter one way or the other."_

"_Father!" shouted Robb, charging up on a palomino; Grey Wind as always by his side. "Is it true?! Have they found Arya?!"_

* * *

Sean eased out of his chair, not caring how conspicuous he appeared to his fellow lords, and knelt by the tent flap, in front of the girl still mostly hidden in the shadows. "Brave one," he called her in a soft voice. "Sansa is of your pack. And direwolves look after their packmates. I share both your worry and hope for your sister. But as _the_ Stark of Winterfell, sometimes my pack is more than just you, your sister, your brothers, and your mother." He reached out a gentle hand and smoothed a small, twisted lock on her forehead; a face that looked as much his, if not more so, than did those of his true daughters Molly, Evie, and Lorna. As always, the thought of them tore a piece out of Sean's heart. "Sometimes my pack is all of the North. These strong men here look to me to lead _that_ pack. To lead, they must think me stronger than I truly am. Can you understand, Arya?"

With watery eyes, Arya nodded slowly, causing what part of her still short mane of black hair that could to flop forwards towards her grey eyes. "I can't stay," she whispered.

The actor shook his head. "No," he whispered back.

She reluctantly stepped out of his sleeping area.

Sean snatched her hand, stopping her. "Have you been practicing what Syrio taught you?" he whispered.

A faint look of pleasure slipped onto Arya's horsey, adorable face. "Yes, father. Quent and Shadd let me spar against them with Needle."

'They damn well better,' Sean thought. 'That's one advantage of being medieval lord, the men don't protest even an order they find foolish.'

"Oh, and Ser Olyvar," she added.

'Interesting. I wonder if _he's_ been helping too? _He_ doesn't have anything to do until I say the name.' "What about the other things Syrio taught you?"

Arya frowned, not exactly happy at being forced to recall the dance instructor who'd saved her life at the expense of his own. "Like what, father?"

He smiled. "I remember hearing something about 'Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow.'"

"Yes …?" the girl said hesitantly, raising her eyebrows uncertainly.

Without moving his head, he pointedly shifted his eyes in the direction of the pavilion's side entrance, out of which several squires could be seen, each waiting to serve at the beck and call of their lord. "Perhaps you could work on being as quiet, and unseen, as a shadow, hmmmn?" he said softly.

Arya blinked once. Then her eyes started to widen, but just as quickly her face went still.

'Smart child,' Sean thought.

In a louder voice than before, but not too loud, his not daughter said in a semi-petulant tone. "Lessons? Now? Oh father!" And before turning away to stomp off, she slipped him a wink.

He stood up.

"Is everything alright, Ned?" not Michelle asked.

Not Ned didn't turn around to face the room, so as to hide the smile on his lips, when he answered sternly, "Yes."

* * *

_As Sean, not Michelle, and not Rich, accompanied by three hundred deadly northerners rode in a long column down the dirt path through rolling woodland, the space between the trees started to widen and the thickets bracketing the track lessen. The dull early February sky at last revealed a large open pasture of dead, yellow grass and reeds. Toward the far end forty riders sporting either a silver Mallister eagle or a dead Blackwood weirwood on their surcoats could be seen riding in a perimeter around a small convoy of near two score ragged figures walking around five ramshackle wagons. The Riverland guards gave a brief cheer and the lead bunch of them parted, pulling back to let the grey direwolf sigil of Winterfell through. Even over the thundering beat of hooves, not Ned heard the joyous shrieks of a child's and a mother's voice._

"_Mother!"_

"_Arya!"_

"_Father!"_

_Cat flew out of her saddle and with scarred hands swept up a scarecrow of a child into her arms. Arya's dirty black hair poked out here and there in what the actor took for the world's worst haircut; Yoren's successful, but damned ugly, attempt to make a waif of a girl pass for a boy from King's Landing's slums._

_Seeing the love glowing between mother and daughter, Sean let out a massive sigh of release. Arya had been the first dent in his armor of omniscience. Back by the banks of the Trident, the first time he'd met Catelyn, he'd awed her, by way of explaining his 'resurrection,' with all his knowledge about what had happened, was happening, and would happen in George's dirty, shitten world of Westeros. Of course his not wife's first concern, her first query; believing every word the paragon of honor the oh so noble Eddard Stark had doled out, had been about Sansa and Arya. He'd couched Sansa's status as carefully as he could, hinting at the possible hellish deeds the psychopathic bastard Joffrey might unleash on the girl. But Arya, for Arya he'd promised not Michelle the moon; that their younger daughter was already escaped from King's Landing and Northern riders were already ranging to find Arya. He'd pledged that her return was imminent, only it hadn't been so easy. Sean hadn't remembered the script, the books, correctly. The Night Watch recruits hadn't been plotted to leave King's Landing until the Red Comet appeared, two weeks after the destruction of Tywin Lannister's host. If word of her father's death had reached Cersei before the comet's appearance, he'd doubted the paranoid bitch would have let anyone, not even a Black Brother, out of the city. Luckily that nightmare hadn't quite happened. He sighed again._

"_Arya!" he shouted, now also off his horse._

_The girl broke out of her mother's grasp and ran at not Ned; leaping the last five feet through the air like a battering ram to plow right into his armored chest, staggering him slightly._

_He swept arms around her back to hold her high and began to swing the willow wisp around in a happy, almost drunken circle. He found himself giggling, tears welling up in his eyes, caught up in the joyous reunion with a person he'd never met before. A small detached part of himself whispered in his head, 'She looks amazingly like Maisie.'_

_He staggered. Robb had bounded into him, smushing Arya between the two of them. Giving huge shouts to release his elation and months of pent up, stomach churning worry._

_He staggered again as Catelyn joined the impromptu circle dance._

_Grey Wind yipped in delight, twirling around them in the opposite direction._

_Through spinning eyes, Sean watched the Black Brother approach and then stop a respectful distance away. After a time, he carefully disentangled himself from the joyous family reunion and stepped over to the ugly stooped man who had saved Arya. "Brother Yoren."_

"_Lord Stark. I … I … I never thought to see you again," the grizzled, black bearded wandering crow stuttered with amazement through his red, sourleaf stained teeth._

_Not Ned smiled kindly, knowing the man had been at Baelor's Sept when that deed, best not dwelt on too long for his sanity's sake. "Except decorating a spike," he snickered._

"_Well …" the Black Brother first spluttered. And then he began to chuckle harder and harder. "Har … har … harr! Well, yes my Lord," he finally coughed out._

_Sean slipped on a knowing yet mysterious look and whispered for only the foul smelling man's ears to hear. "The Old Gods work in mysterious ways, Brother Yoren. A Red Comet flies through the sky. A man is brought back from the dead. The North marches south to stop the Seven Kingdoms from war between themselves. And Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-The-Wall, seeks to lead the wildlings through the Wall. Winter is coming."_

_Yoren gulped hard at not Ned's words, swallowing his sourleaf. "What would you have me do?" the wandering crow asked, displaying not an ounce of skepticism at what he'd just been told._

"_It is to you, the sworn brother of the Night's Watch who saved my daughter, that the question should be asked," Sean answered._

_The coarse, ugly, lice ridden head atop the stooped shoulders bobbed up and down as he thought on the Lord of Winterfell's words. "She's a tough little wolf cub, your Arya. Shame to see a fighting spirit like that penned up in ladies dresses and all that poxy mishmash," he started to spout, before suddenly shutting up for another minute to think._

_Sean stayed quiet, letting the smart man think._

"'_Tis true about Mance? On yer honor, milord?"_

"_I swear," not Ned said solemnly._

_Yoren bobbed his head yet again. "I knew Mance a mite before he returned to the folk of his birth; a fierce, clever foe to his enemies." The man stroked his black beard a moment. "Will the North come to the Night Watch's aid? Help us to man the long length of the Wall, like it were done a thousand years ago," the wandering crow finally proposed._

"_We shall. You have the word of a Stark, the lords of Winterfell," Sean answered easily._

_Suddenly, the flapping of some banner in the wind caught the wandering crow's attention. A knowing look came upon his face. "But not today."_

_Yoren was no one's fool Sean observed. "No. A Lannister may always pay his debts. But so does a Stark."_

_A wicked smile cracked the ugly man's stained lips. He scratched at a particularly bothersome lice and then said, "Can't say's I blame you. That one back there's," and the Black Brother jerked a thumb in the general direction of King's Landing, "a noisome little shite." The Night's Watch was sworn to stay out of the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, so Yoren named no names. "And he wanted one of my recruits somethin' fierce, not Arya though; sent some useless gold cloak fuckers to try and snatch him."_

'_Gendry,' Sean thought_

"_We drove'em off, easy enough. But I'm tired of sneaking around. You'll be giving us a proper escort back North then," Yoren said, more statement than question._

_Not Ned nodded his agreement before saying, "I do actually have two requests to make of you."_

"_Name it, my lord."_

"_First, there are three prisoners that came from the black cells. You've been keeping them chained in a wagon, I believe."_

"_Yes," Yoren answered dubiously._

"_I would see them. I have need of one of them, perhaps all three."_

_And so later, during a brief stop as the convoy and its enlarged escort headed back towards the kingsroad and the army of the True King, Yoren introduced not Ned to Biter, Rorge, and Jaqen H'ghar. The actor dismissed the wandering crow and all others within earshot so he could to speak to the prisoners alone._

_Addressing himself to only the white and red haired one while the other two hissed and spit and cursed at him, Sean announced, "I would kill these beasts. Even at the Wall, creatures such as these would find no redemption. The black brothers would have to put them down like dogs at the first sign of madness."_

"_That may be, the Red God will take his due when it is time."_

"_And what if I thought to add your name to the Red God's due?" not Ned whispered._

_The split color haired man simply tilted his eyes and stared keenly back at the actor. "I would wish otherwise, but all men must die," the prisoner at last replied evenly._

_Sean leaned in very close. "Valar morghulis," he whispered._

"_Valar dohaeris," came the equally quiet response._

* * *

Sean, face now steadied, turned around to find the lords and ladies in the tent watching him with varying degrees of tolerance or humor or affection on their faces. The actor's icy not Ned glare drove most to look away or suddenly pick up their goblets.

Only the Blackfish boldly dared make an open quip. "I've seen my great niece wield that sharp little needle of hers. Littlefinger doesn't know how merciful Lord Stark is. I fear if Arya had stayed, the sanctity of our parley would have been broken and the treacherous wretch would have returned to his whore queen as ball-less as that spider Varys."

Behind ill-concealed smirks and over raised cups a muttering of complements for not Ned's not daughter spilled out. The epic tale of her escape from the Red Keep, living alone on the streets of Flea Bottom for a month, watching her own father's beheading, and then disguised as a boy slipping out of the city as a recruit for the Wall had quickly swept the whole army after her rescue. Those few minstrels following the army were composing songs and epic ballads of her daring do. In fact, Arya's brave deeds along with Robb's victory over the Kingslayer to free Riverrun and not Ned's own defeat of Tywin Lannister, let alone his return from the dead, had helped build a legend within the army that the Starks were unbeatable.

The actor felt a surge of pride for his replacement daughter.

As he hoped to himself that everyone's response would be just as positive with Sansa's return, Sean completely missed Jason Mallister's murmured comment, "Lady Arya's another Knight of the Laughing Tree in the making."


	11. Chapter 10 - Arya (I)

**Arya (I)**

Arya stomped out the side flap of the tent arms swinging angrily and face scowling; pretending to be nothing more than she wanted to appear, a tantrum throwing child. She discovered the outside colder and darker than tent, night having almost fallen. As she passed truculently through the ring of grey clad Winterfell guards circling her parent's pavilion, she noticed it was busier too; pages and squires running errands for their masters, men-at-arms coming from or going to their watches at the siege line, and groups of men milling about fires where camp followers boiled dinners of stew in battered pots above roaring fires. Still, to the girl, the thousands of northerners and river folk gathered on the plains outside was but a drop in a bucket compared to the crowed confines inside King's Landing, the frightening world of Fleabottom in which she'd lived alone, always scared, for an agonizingly long month.

The ten year old turned right and then left and then right again, slipping further and further away from the tent, but in her mind's eye she never lost track of her destination or how she'd return to it. Every now and then someone would smile at her or shout out a greeting, whether it was some unknown soldier spotting her as he sharpened his blade from a quiet spot in front of a tent or a familiar face sporting the direwolf sigil on his surcoat as he walked by or any one of the seemingly numberless weasel-like Freys infesting the army. In a twinkling, upon her reunion with her family, she'd gone from Arya Horseface, or Arya Underfoot when she was finally noticed, to 'Arya the Bold.' The few wandering minstrels following the army were already singing songs about her. Being known she'd begun to realize was just as horrid as being ignored; you were never alone and you were always alone. She wondered if that's how father or any other great lord felt.

Arya slipped through a line of horses being led back to their paddock. She needed to wait for darkness to fully descend before she dared sneak back and become as he father said, repeating on of Syrio's water dancing rules, 'quiet as a shadow.' Memories of her dance teacher welled up inside Arya. 'Quiet as a shadow.' 'Every hurt is a lesson.' 'There is only one thing we say to death: not today.' She missed her dance teacher and his clever, often infuriating words. Bitter tears sprung forth. She felt betrayed, Syrio had forgotten to say 'not today' to death. Just like so many others she knew and liked had failed to do on that awful, awful day: kind Vayon Poole, funny Fat Tom, strong Cayn, quiet Varly, indulgent Hullen, and even patient Septa Mordane whom Arya had oft treated so poorly. At least she could be sure her new friends wouldn't suffer that same horrible fate; the Lannisters were already beaten and soon enough Hot Pie, Lommy, and the others would be safe in the North. 'Well, if the Wall can be considered safe.' At their parting she had given Yoren a letter for Jon, introducing the lot of them to her brother. She missed him too.

Finally the girl felt confident she could start to angle back, she slipped between a thick chested blacksmith lightly hammering out some rough nails atop a small, travelling forge and a stacked row of barrels. The beat on the anvil reminded her of the friend she missed most. She'd never actually seen him at work, but his thick arms and chest had obviously revealed Gendry's claim of being a blacksmith's apprentice to be no lie. Of course if he'd ever claimed that his powerful frame came from being dead King Robert's bastard, she'd have laughed at him. But that would have been true too. What were the chances that the offspring of two great friends would unknowingly become great friends themselves? Or that her father would come back from death? "Not today," she murmured to herself, feeling very proud of his having cheated death.

* * *

_The tall, heavily muscled youth shook his thick black hair. "Can't I go back with the rest, Arry … I mean your ladyship?" he asked uncomfortably, staring up at the giant direwolf banner swaying over the even larger pavilion._

_Arya laughed and tugged at Gendry's hand. "Father doesn't bite," she said. "Besides, he says he's already met you. He didn't leave any marks on you then, did he?"_

"_All the same, I'm happy enough not to repeat the experience." Blue eyes then dropped down to gaze at the now well dressed waif next to him. "Nothing good ever comes of mixing with the highborn," he declared stubbornly._

_The young girl, dressed in well-made riding clothes but still sporting an atrocious black brother barber's cut, laughed again. "It didn't seem to stop you becoming my friend."_

_Gendry snorted._

"_And I told you those gold cloaks were looking for me and not you?" she teased, not letting their long running debate end._

_The apprentice cum journeyman blacksmith grunted neutrally._

"_Lady Arya," the senior guard by the front entrance of the overly large tent called out. "Am I to announce you to your lord father? Or do you intend to keep arguing all day with that giant?"_

_The girl stuck her tongue out at the man and then grinned impishly. "I think you better announce me and my friend Gendry, Jacks."_

_The Winterfell man-at-arms grinned back before leaning towards the mouth of the entrance and announcing, "Lady Arya and guest, Lord Stark."_

"_Now you've done it," the big youth whispered._

_Arya tugged again; and this time the lummox let his feet start moving again, all the way into the tent._

"_Arya. Gendry, it's good to see you again."_

"_Milord," he mumbled, bobbing his head and shoulders in imitation of a bow._

"_The North thanks you for protecting my daughter, Gendry. I am in your debt."_

"_Ahh-hem. T'weren't nothing more than any of the others did, milord," he responded awkwardly. "We all appreciate the food and rest and guards you've given us. It'll make the rest of the journey a mite easier."_

_The Lord of Winterfell grinned. "If the humble blacksmith won't ask for a reward, then let me make a small initial payment by settling a bet you and my daughter have?"_

"_Milord?" Gendry rumbled uncertainly._

_Arya simply stood there, blinking in surprise at her father._

"_It was you the gold cloaks were after Gendry, not Mai … Arya."_

"_What?!" snapped Arya, while her friend mumbled "Milord?" again._

"_Did you never wonder why not one, but two Hands of the King came to Tobho Mott's shop and both asked to see you, Gendry?"_

"_Not so's it ever bothered me none," the big youth replied. "Everyone knows the highborn are … well … no milord, I didn't," he said falteringly._

"_Then let me tell you why Gendry, and I must have your word this must go no further than the three of us. At least until I give you permission to speak of it to others. Understand?"_

"_Yes, milord. My word on it."_

"_And you too, Arya."_

"_Yes, father," she chirped, feeling her excitement rise that a great secret was about to be revealed._

"_It's about who your father is."_

_Thick black locks moved as Gendry slowly nodded his head, though little interest, let alone excitement shone on his face._

"_You are the bastard of Robert Baratheon," Arya's father announced._

_Arya herself gasped._

_The young man kept slowly bobbing his head, but at least his lips pursed a bit to show he was thinking about what he'd just heard._

"_And Queen Cersei wanted all Robert's bastards dead, so no one could ever see that they were all dark haired where her children were all fair headed. That is why she sent the gold cloaks after you. They had no idea Arya was hiding among you."_

_The slight girl didn't gasp at this news, for she'd heard it the night before when in the safety of the army her mother and father had shared with her a summary of all the events since that awful, awful day. Just one more reason to hate the evil Queen and her twisted children._

_Gendry's head at last came to a stop. "I'm pledged to the Night's Watch," he said matter of factly._

"_It's true Castle Black needs a good young smith; their master armorer Donal Noye is aging and has only one arm. But those aren't final vows, Gendry. I've asked Yoren and he will release you if you wish."_

"_Oh Gendry," Arya squealed, clapping her hands in joy. "You can stay with me! You can stay with me!" Her father immediately glared at her and she brought herself under control, though the happy smile never left her face._

_The powerful young man grimaced as if in pain as he tried to process the choice before him. After a moment or two, he stolidly asked, "If not the Wall, then where next then, milord?"_

_Arya's father gave a warm smile. "You are always welcome within my house, Gendry. If you wanted to work the forges in Winterfell, you'd find my smith Mikken a clever enough man to learn from; and most of it wouldn't be fancy armor like Tobho Mott's. I'll be expanding the number of smithies I run in the next few years, by rather a lot really. I plan to turn the Wintertown outside my castle's walls into a city. Before you'd know it you'd be master of your own shop there, with apprentices and journeymen looking for guidance from you."_

_Gendry's somewhat dour expression didn't change. He pondered what he heard and then asked his next question. "Could I return to King's Landing?"_

_The Lord of Winterfell sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Yes, once we drive the Lannisters out. I would help you find a situation to your liking if you wish. You'd not want for silver or gold to live comfortably."_

"_But?" interjected Arya, sensing her father's reluctance._

_The one word question promptly brought an open frown to Gendry's face. "Milord?"_

"_The new King wouldn't like having a reminder of his brother so close to him. Oh his Grace is a just man, make no mistake; he'd abide your presence, no matter how uncomfortable it might make him feel. But … " the Lord of Winterfell paused, as if searching for the right words to say. "… but others in his house might see you as a … a threat … or even an … opportunity."_

"_Go to Winterfell," Arya pleaded._

"_Would I be safe there?" the young man asked practically._

_Arya's father nodded. "Safe as any place in war. Now there is one more option for you, Gendry."_

_The young man didn't respond. He just kept staring through dark blue eyes at the man guiding his future._

"_I would give you a Holdfast of your own; nothing grand, mind you. Still, a place you could smith to your heart's content. Not too far from Winterfell though, for I meant what I said about expanding my foundries. I'd want to be able to include you in the network of industry I mean to build. You could become a lord of smiths. Make a hammer and anvil your sigil."_

_Arya clapped her hands at the idea of it._

_But the words 'a lord of smiths' caused a scowl to appear on the young man's face. "No, milord, I'm no highborn sc … that life's not for me. I'm a blacksmith."_

"_Smart lad," said the Lord of Winterfell. "Where would you like to swing your hammer and sweat an honest day's work then?"_

_Gendry scrunched up his face in thought. He glanced over at Arya once, and then opened his mouth. "Is there another lord I might smith for?"_

_Arya's joy for her friend's reward, and for herself, faltered._

* * *

'Deepwood Motte isn't so very far away,' she tried to convince to herself. 'Only three hundred miles. I'll still be able to see that stubborn bull … occasionally.' She didn't bother rationalizing about Lommy, Hot Pie, Tarber, or the rest; she knew they only ever might meet again when she visited Jon at the Wall, something she'd long ago sworn to do. 'At least that wandering ugly old crow Yoren could be counted to stop by Winterfell once in a while,' she thought. Arya stopped and crouched in the narrow gap between two tents where it reached the edge of what passed for a street in the camp. She always stayed low and snatched a glimpse before trying to pass through any open or partially lit spaces.

Spying nothing, the girl stood up and sauntered casually into the muddy lane.

"Lady Arya!" a high pitched voice shouted.

'Waterman!' Arya bolted. 'Wrong way!' Through the murky light the tubby boy who served as her father's squire suddenly loomed right in front of her. She dodged left, running between a line of men and straight through the untied flap of a tent entrance.

"Hey!"

"Wait yer turn."

"A little young, sonny."

'Ewww,' she thought, hopping over half naked bodies rutting and grunting away at each other like dogs in heat. Living a month in the slums of King's Landing, Arya had few illusions about what men and women did together, but still, 'Yuck!'

No exit presented itself so the slight girl dropped down and slithered under the back wall. A strong hand roughly grabbed the cloth at her shoulder as she came up to her knees and yanked her into the air.

"No leavin' wid out payin, laddie," a mouth full of half missing yellow-brown stained teeth gushed at her bearing the stench of rotten meat with it. "Dat's a star a …"

Her foot lashed out, catching the pimp in the kneecap.

"Ooof!"

More of his putrid smell washed over her face, but she ignored it, feeling the tough's grip loosen a bit. She lashed out a fist next, catching him in the throat.

"Ack!"

He let go. Arya's feet hit the ground and they started moving without conscious thought. Faster, faster, faster.

* * *

_She feinted left._

_Quent swept the heavy blunt tourney blade to his right._

_Needle darted back right, her eyes long since having told her Quent moved slower going left. All too easy. And …_

"_Ouch!" her father's guardsman exclaimed, taking a wary step backward. Even wearing boiled leather, the small wood block the slender blade's tip still smarted when his liege's daughter had time to put her whole body behind her slender extended arm._

"_Oh Arya the Bold?" called Olyvar cheerily from atop the barrel he sat._

_She set her lips, not liking that name; though for a weaselly Frey, Olyvar wasn't so bad. "What?" she groused back._

"_Let the good Quent use his shield. Why do you think he's slow going left? He's not used to it." Her father's aide then held up the scrap parchment he'd been working on with his left hand and dangled it like a shield. "He's got this to protect him."_

_Arya bit her lower lip a moment. Apparently poor Quent's body had spoken the truth to Olyvar too, and he'd had the wits to see it._

"_T'would be more of a challenge for ya, milady," Quent agreed with a grin._

_Of course he grinned, Northern shields were too big and she too short; she could never land a killing blow in such a fight, unless she could turn him around somehow with her speed or his shield was actually a piece of parchment. Arya supposed she could at least make his toes sting; however ... "Then let's see how quick you are going left, noble Ser?" she taunted._

_Olyvar grinned back at her, refusing to fall for the trick. "I fear I have too many calculations to make. Your lord father seems exceedingly fond of 'paper work' as he calls it. And he cherishes the phrase that 'an army marches on its belly.' So my lady, if I don't have 'the numbers' for him on our supply status, I might find myself returned to the Twins. And I'd hate to disappoint my lord father so."_

_Harrumph. "Alright Quent, go ahead and …"_

"_Perhaps a girl would find me more of a challenge?" a voice asked softly. A familiar figure with red and white hair emerged from a nearby shadow. "I am from Essos and the water dancing style is not unknown to me.'_

'_Where'd he come from?' Arya thought nervously. He was one companion from her journey with Yoren that she wouldn't have missed ever seeing again; though he wasn't nearly as ferocious appearing as the other two that had been chained up with him, Biter and Rorge. Good riddance to that pair of murderous scum. And hadn't she warned her brother Jon about them in the letter father had let Yoren carry for her to the Wall._

_Ser Olyvar frowned and slipped off the barrel. "I do not think Lord Stark would …"_

"_A man grows bored with little to do. You need not be concerned, if I was ever a danger to the not boy I heard called Arry, the so called Lord of Winterfell would have kept me chained."_

"_Well …" Olyvar _

"_I have a stick," Jaqen announced, holding up narrow, longish curved piece of wood that once must have been a tent's reinforcing pole. "Did the sword who taught you start your training with wooden swords, hhhmmn? Perhaps filled with lead? Come show me child what you learned from him."_

_Feeling her temper flare at the challenge extended to Syrio's memory, Arya leapt forward Needle at the ready, she feinted high and dropped …_

_Thwack!_

_The back of her calf stung. 'How'd he?' She spun. There he stood, smug smile revealing a single gold tooth among a pearly row beneath his hooked nose._

"_Faster," he whispered._

_Arya hopped left, jerked backward, then surged straight ahead._

_Jaqen's sinewy body curved as Needle thrust past him. His wood stick dropped low._

_Thwack!_

_Pain shot through Arya's knee._

"_Faster," he whispered._

_The girl crumpled to the ground and rolled away._

_The split haired man stayed in place, as did his smug smile, though his eyes watched his opponent very, very carefully._

_Arya stood up. The knee wasn't too bad. She could continue. 'Hurt is a lesson,' she heard Syrio say. 'And every lesson makes you better.' She drew deep breaths, recognizing she'd lost the early battle before it had even begun by losing her temper._

_Jaqen's smile became less smug and more pleasant. He even tilted his head in a brief nod to the girl. Yet he concluded his smile sign of respect with another infuriating, "Faster."_

_The water dancer turned her body sideways and stepped nimbly forward on the balls of her feet, Needle held in the en garde position._

_Swish, the wood stick darted out._

_Smack, Needle intercepted the blow._

_Swish. Smack. Again. Swish Smack._

"_Faster."_

_The pair pirouetted._

_Swish. Smack. Counter. Thrust. Smack. Turn. Again. Thrust. Smack. Swish._

"_Ouch!"_

"_Faster."_

_Feint. Turn. Swish. Smack. Again. And again. And again. Counter. Thrust. Smack. Swish._

"_Ahgggra!"_

_"Faster."_

* * *

She hid in the darkness, having run as fast as she dared through the maze of tents and men. Now limiting herself to slow, long breaths as she listened for any pursuit, her eyes carefully watched the guards around her father's great pavilion, looking for what truths their bodies would tell her. She swore one particular shadow cast on the grey tent wall by flickering torch light revealed two tones of hair above a hooked nose. Jaqen appeared almost ghost like at the oddest times. 'That's just a shadow,' she told herself. Still, it caused Arya to frown and wonder why her father had freed that one from becoming a brother of the Night's Watch. 'Can he free Jon too if he wants?' she asked, though the girl suspected the answer to be no. The Watch was as old and honorable as her house. Uncle Benjen had joined them, and Jon. No, their vows were for life.

"Now," she whispered. Her eyes had spotted a chance to scurry across. A small wagon being pulled by a half dozen men was about to pass her. She rose on to her toes and … 'Go!'

In a crouch she darted between the wheels and started walking hunched way over beneath its floor boards. One set of legs passed by, a second set, a third set. 'And it should be … here!' Again Arya darted out, this time on all fours, hoping no eyes spied her.

Creak! The wagon kept rolling. No shouts of challenge arose. The tent wall loomed up. 'Yes!' The same small gap she'd wormed through before was right there. She crawled on her belly and quickly found herself on the thick rugs making up the floor of her parents' sleeping space. Raised voices came from the other side of the snug room's interior partition. 'Drat I'm late.' Staying on her belly she wiggled towards the edge of the flap. Carefully, slowly she peered into the main room and spied her mother, brother, uncles, and others sitting mostly as before on her side of a long table. 'Where's fa … oh, there he is.' She found him standing on the other side of the table next to three men.

Arya stifled a gasp, recognizing one of them, Joffrey's horrid scarred dog who'd killed Micah. The Hound. She yearned for that one's death. "Today," she whispered hopefully.

Smack!

Arya stifled a second gasp, her father had struck one; and the slight mousy one wearing black had fallen to the ground. 'That isn't like father, no not at all,' she thought, a queer feeling starting to grow in her belly. Too much was not quite right, she could no longer deny what her eyes told her.


	12. Chapter 11

The flap to the main entrance snapped back.

"The requested envoys from King's Landing," the voice of Galbart Glover called out sternly from the chill dusk outside, completing his duty of escorting the trio of unworthies to not Ned.

The first to appear, suspiciously leaning his head forward to check for a trap, hand tight on his sword handle, was the Hound.

Sean tried not to gawk. He'd seen horrible things at the Green Fork, even killed a man himself. Then been forced to ride for weeks beneath the rotting, flesh peeling skulls of vanquished Westerland lords festooning the tops of his triumphant Northern banners' spears. Sandor Clegane's face matched all that for ugliness; the thick pockmarked burn scars oozing a constant slow dribble of light pinkish serum, the missing ear and clumps of hair, the bone showing through the gap in his check, avian predatory eyes, and a permanent, hateful scowl. 'Gods, Rory,' the actor thought. 'In makeup, you look like a cuddly puppy compared to this … this zombie.' The man from earth couldn't fathom how this walking monstrosity hadn't succumbed to a life ending infection.

Mollified by what he saw, the foul brute stepped all the way in. "Come on then," he barked to the dimly shaped figures behind him.

Petyr Baelish strode smoothly, confidently, in next.

'No Aidan this one,' the actor thought. Short and slender, yes. Chin beard and silver sprinkled hair, certainly. Smartly dressed, wearing a mockingbird pendant, of course. Attractive? Even smarmily so? Not in the least. Utterly dull, a drab accountant. Completing his assessment, 'How easy to underestimate him,' Sean thought. But he knew better.

Littlefinger looked as if he didn't have a care in the world. He didn't even stare a split second at not Ned, nor his long yearned for lady love, Catelyn. Not a clue did the slight man betray that he was at all panicked or intimidated being in the presence of a man he watched die; and who certainly must hate him for the rather large part he played in causing said demise.

Varys shuffled in last on quick, mincing steps; each hand tucked fastidiously up the opposite arm's billowing sleeve.

Sean shivered as his goolies begged him to run and hide from this unnatural apparition. A shaved head, a smidge of plumpness, the proper clothes, and Con's brilliant acting still couldn't do justice to the off putting aura of the real live eunuch. The modern, civilized man wondered if this was only an instinctive response to being in the presence of a man who had actually had his meat and two veg chopped off.

"My Lord Stark," the Master of Whisperers announced, his voice coming across as a near shout in the dead silence permeating the tent. Realizing the loudness of his speech, he tittered nervously a moment before continuing sotto voce, "So good to see you … again. And so hale … and vital." More tiny, uneasy giggles followed. "Such an unexpected .. haha … surprise."

'Let this act of the Game of Thrones begin,' not Ned whispered to himself as a prayer, sucking up his courage. "Silence!" he roared angrily, surging out of his chair from behind the table in the center of the candle lit pavilion turned audience chamber.

"I take orders from no man, not even a talking dead one," Clegane exploded defiantly; knuckles whitening on his pommel, prepared to release pitiless violence.

"Which is why I wanted you here most of all, Hound," Sean rejoined, with significantly less heat than his initial declamation.

The scowl intensified, but Clegane's eyes flickered with uncertainty, surprised by not Ned's abrupt change of tack.

"Tell me, Clegane, when Joffrey orders you to beat Sansa. Do you obey like a good dog? Or do you leave it to those other so called honorable, gentle Sers of the Kingsguard to strike my daughter?"

Rage and conflict twisted Clegane's scarred, abomination of a face. His whole body clenched, fighting against itself. "No," he at last choked out.

"She lives?" Catelyn gasped, unable to stay silent any longer; her question vibrating with untold depths of feeling.

"Yes," the brute answered with less emotion, almost relief; regaining some control of his terrible self.

Cat moaned, releasing her pent up fears and hopes. A soft sigh exited the lips of several others in the tent too, Robb most of all.

"Raped?" Sean asked with an icy voice.

Clegane's eyes narrowed and his face clenched; revealing that another struggle was taking place within him, and that something horrible indeed must have happened to not Sophie. But in the end, after keeping everyone on tenterhooks, he shook his head no.

"Praise the Mother," burst not Michelle, openly beginning to weep.

"She's scarred though, isn't she?" not Ned continued. "Maimed."

An uncomfortable look twisted its way across the Hound's evil visage.

"Isn't she!?" the actor demanded in his best, raised not Ned command voice.

"Yes," the Hound growled reluctantly.

Sean simply nodded his understanding; already well knowing anything was possible where the mad beast Joffrey was concerned. "Ser Olvyar," he called softly, now looking inscrutable. "Bring me and my guest here goblets of wine."

"Uh, yes, my Lord. Right away, my Lord," his startled aide responded.

If Olyvar were in fact to marry Sansa; one of the many possible finishing touches Sean had contemplated in his plans for wrapping this vicious, barbaric story up into a neat, pretty little package, then his aide de camp would need to get used to seeing scars very quickly. He walked around the table and stood quietly near the Hound, but not too close, as the brute glared at him all the while with a look that said 'I can kill you anytime I want."

Olyvar arrived quickly and Walder Frey's most worthwhile son offered a cup of red to his lord's guest first. The Hound snatched the goblet and stared into it suspiciously for a moment.

'If only it had iocane powder,' the actor thought with a snicker, accepting his own goblet. Not Ned lifted it and toasted the amoral guardian of his not daughter, "Sandor Clegane, I thank you for my little bird's life and her maidenhead. To Sansa."

In the background Sean saw Baelish roll his eyes at the scene. Varys, however, held a highly interested look as the exchange between the two men approached its curious conclusion.

With the toast, the Hound's scowl turned more wary, until at last he answered, with perhaps the smallest trace of softness, "To Sansa." And in three seconds flat he quaffed the entire cup.

Sean took only a small sip. While he relished the idea of a nip, the present company and dire situation they presented to his plans rather turned his stomach.

Varys started to applaud lightly. "Oh neatly done, Lord Stark. You've leashed Joffrey's favorite pet with a few mere words and the image of your sweet child," simpered the Spider.

"I'll gut you, Eunuch," the Hound blazed.

Varys ignored the killer's venom and continued, "Pray tell, how did you ever discover such a tender, romantic spot existed in poor Sandor's heart for a little bird? And here I thought I was the only one to care for 'little birds.'" He preened. "I don't recall a sweet northern red headed chickadee in my menagerie."

"Tread carefully, Spider, or I'll let the Hound have you, parley or not," the actor said icily.

The Master of Whisperers pouted. "Tsk tsk tsk. Threats? We were such good friends on the Small Council, my Lord. Sharing information. Guiding the Seven Kingdoms with our wisdom."

"Guiding the kingdom to ruin and war. You're nothing but a treacherous liar," not Ned declared with contempt.

The pout took on a deeper level of sadness. "I can understand your thirst for vengeance and distrust of me, Lord Stark. But please believe, the deal we struck to exchange your confession for banishment to the Wall, was made with the utmost honesty and integrity on my part. I was as nearly surprised and disappointed as yourself when impetuous King Joffrey …" Titter. Titter. "so dramatically, so drastically, so irrevocably changed the terms." The look the Spider now gave dripped sympathy and sorrow. "To your detriment of course, unfortunately. But what could I to do once his Grace sprung his little jape and called it mercy?" Then he flashed a cheery grin, "And now, magically, divinely, you've been returned to us. Such a joyous occasion to welcome you back, Lord Stark."

"Oh, shut up," Littlefinger disdainfully interjected. "We both know, Varys, why the dour, honorable Lord of Winterfell demanded the two of us for this meeting. And I have no doubt this icy fellow is who he claims, for he's clearly no imposter, unless he be a Faceless Man. He wishes, from the lofty perch of his miraculous return, to dispense his oh so superior glower of noble disapproval on those he chiefly blames for his fall; no matter 'twas his own inept play in the Game of Thrones that caused his shortened neck. I tried to warn you Stark, teach you; tried to even befriend you. But you refused to listen, let alone abide me, through your unbelievably thick righteous armor of knightly, honorable sensibilities. So be quick with your little show, and give us your terms so we may return to the Queen. I grow weary with your predictability."

"You!" screeched Catelyn, rising from her chair; hate twisting her beautiful face. "Like a brother I trusted you! And this is how you returned my faith, by destroying my family!"

"Cat …" he replied with spread arms, looking and sounding like a smug man appeasing an angry lover.

Sean stepped over. Smack!

Baelish found himself lying on the thick rugs strewn across the floor, rubbing his jaw.

The Hound laughed at the little man's arse over tits predicament. Varys tittered uncomfortably.

"You want terms, you odious wretch?! Then here are the terms. Cersei may have her brother lover back in exchange for my daughter. But that is not all I require, oh no, not at all," Sean ranted. "When she comes, so do you, Littlefinger; and the Eunuch too. You will become my prisoners; to do with however I so please. And it will please me greatly," he hissed.

Both the Master of Coin and the Master of Whisperers suddenly looked very pale; while the scarred man appeared very, very amused.

"Oh, Lord Stark …" Varys started to say with disappointment.

"Silence!" not Ned roared at him, then turned back to the Hound and raised the goblet of red he still held. "You'll want to keep a hand on this pair all the way to the Red Keep. The rest of my 'show,' you see, is for you, Hound; to repeat to Cersei. And if these wretches were likely to flee already, once they hear this next bit, they'll be like rats deserting a sinking ship after."

The brute raised his eyebrows in doubt. "Truly?" his harsh voice asked.

"On my honor as a Stark," Sean replied earnestly.

The amused look turned into an open smile on Clegane's horrid phiz. He too stepped forward and delivered a sharp kick to the reclining Baelish.

"ooof!" And then the jumped up accountant rolled over with a moan and clutched his belly.

The Hound turned toward the Spider, rising up a heavy paw.

Varys let out a pitiful whimper, and cried as he shrank backward, "Please, Lord Stark!"

"Enough," not Ned commanded.

Clegane lowered his fist, only to quickly lift it a second time in order to watch the Eunuch flinch. He laughed at the display of cowardice, but did not lash out after all. "Tell me," the Hound chortled at not Ned.

"Varys is a creature of the Targaryens, always has been. He's toiled for their return since the day Robert foolishly kept him on the Small Council. He works with a longtime friend of his, a fat magistrate in Pentos, named Illyrio. It was this jumped up merchant who arranged the marriage between Daenerys Targaryen and the Dothraki warlord Khal Drogo."

The Hound shrugged his shoulders, unimpressed.

"Illyrio also supplies things to the Eunuch. He proudly mentioned his 'little birds' earlier, always whispering everyone's secrets in his ear so he may better lay his spider's web of deceit. I know who and what his 'little birds' are. My closest banners have been seeking them out, collecting them since I defeated the Old Lion at the Green Fork. Hallis!"

Several members of the Winterfell guard led by their unimaginative nut dutiful captain brought in a score of chained waifs and young vagabonds, looking as if they'd just come from a well-funded production of Oliver Twist.

"Children?" scoffed the Hound, clearly not impressed with the wretches straight out of Dickens.

"Not just any children, Clegane. Pickpockets. Cutpurses. Wall climbers. Lockpicks. Lookouts. Like any you might find in a slum like Fleabottom, but with two devilishly clever differences. First, they all read and write. Who would ever suspect such as those could read the letters and account books of lords, sers, and merchant princes? And second, none of them have their tongues."

"What?!" a startled Hound barked.

"Yes. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a hundred more like these spread throughout King's Landing. Some even in the Red Keep, mutes silently, but watchfully, observing all who come and go. Listening, with sharp ears, through peep holes on all that is said; then scampering through secret tunnels to the Spider's lair and writing out what they learned. Hallis?"

"Come you!" the captain of the guard snapped, dragging forward a dirty, thin, rag clad wretch of a girl no older than ten. "Open your mouth! Show them!" he badgered, poked, and prodded until the child at last responded.

Clegane peered down, taking note of the jagged stump in the child's mouth. "Eh," he said casually, as if unimpressed.

"I'll let you take a half dozen with you. I'm sure, with suitable inducement, Pycelle might have an interesting conversation with one of them using quill and parchment."

The Hound simply grunted in response.

"And we're to believe you didn't mutilate them yourself, Stark," Littlefinger gaspingly accused with a pained voice from the rugs.

Sean looked down at the worm. He kicked him, eliciting another cry of pain. It felt good. "This one," he drawled with scorn. "He was responsible for the poisoning of Lord Arryn. Oh, along with his lover … Lysa Arryn. I wouldn't at all be surprised if her son Robert is actually the fruit of his limp little-finger. Did you think I would not hear the lie you've boasted of for years at court, of taking my fair lady wife's maidenhead? Did you!?" not Ned snarled. He gave the little shit a second boot.

Then, to add fuel to the Hound's fire, "Or I would not discover you coveted my daughter and have plans to spirit her away to the Vale by ship?" 'Well, you would've,' Sean thought with satisfaction, 'if I hadn't come on the scene.' He kicked the lout a third time for emphasis.

The Hound laughed in appreciation of not Ned's unNed-like behavior.

"Though I doubt Cersei would care very much about that; she might even be appreciative. But she'll find this bit interesting, this fuuu …" Sean at last took a breath to calm himself, he'd lost his Ned cool the last few moments. "… this filthy whoremonger told both Lady Catelyn and myself that the knife used to attack her and my son had been won off him in a bet … by a Lannister; which is why my Lady wife grabbed the Imp when she unexpectedly came across him. But that was a lie, like the one he arranged for his lover, Lysa Arryn, to send us. Her secret note arrived in Winterfell right before Robert did. It was her words that spurred me to accept the King's offer and become his Hand. The message claimed the Lannisters had killed Jon Arryn. For his own profit, he purposefully set House Stark against House Lannister.

"You've no proof, Stark," Littlefinger wheezed. "None."

He gazed down at not Aidan, showing no pity in his eyes for the deadly viper. "Oh the Queen," and the actor said the title disparagingly, "will believe it if she knows the accusation came from Eddard Stark. She'll remember the truth and honor I offered her one morning in the godswood." He pivoted back to the Hound. "You should return then, to your master and mistress, Clegane," the actor finally announced. "Though I'm sure Cersei will be displeased if you can't claim to have seen the Kingslayer. No?"

Clegane nodded.

"Jon!" Sean called out.

The Greatjon came through the side flap of the tent, holding tightly onto a shackled, gagged Jaime Lannister.

The Hound took a long look. "Good enough," he grunted. "What about them?" he asked jerking a meaty thumb in the direction of the two cowering members of the Small Council.

"Lord Glover will see that they're tied into their saddles."

"Come on, sheep!" Clegane commanded the pair, turning toward the main entry flap. At the tent wall, he paused, looking back over his shoulder at not Ned with his usual evil glare. "I'll still enjoy killing you when you try storming the walls, Stark," the brute growled.

"So will I," not Ned agreed.


	13. Chapter 12 - Littlefinger (I)

**Littlefinger (I)**

Petyr's jaw ached, and as he gingerly dabbed his tongue against the swollen, scrapped gum inside his abused, handsome face, he determined with a grimace that a tooth had likely chipped. Physically he couldn't do much more than that, as he awaited the Hound's not so tender pleasure, what with his hands tied roughly to the horn of the saddle he found himself be-straddling. Though confined, the Mockingbird's mind never stopped observing, analyzing, and scheming a thousand different ways all at once. He cocked his dapper head to watch the reviled, and apparently more deadly than he ever supposed, bald headed figure that was bound on the grey mare beside him. The Spider's eyes, he noted, lay very still; revealing nothing, no outward indication that he even shared Petyr's delicate predicament. 'Varys, Varys, Varys … you've been terribly naughty for a _very_ long time, haven't you?' he snickered to himself, enjoying the implications of at least _those_ particular startling revelations made this dangerous night by the pretend shade a dead man. The Eunuch didn't even twitch at Petyr's steady, amused gaze upon him. 'No doubt plotting how to extricate yourself from your own sticky web, while I already …'

The clever man cut off his smug thoughts and released a small "whoosh" of pain as Clegane finally started moving their intimate cavalcade of horses and mute children towards the Dragon Gate and the Hound's anxious, ever suspicious mistress. Both the reins of Petyr's black gelding and those for Varys' mount were tied to the Hound's massive warhorse, as was the slender iron chain of shackled urchins. His belly and ribs hurt much worse than his jaw. At least the pair of brainless brutes who'd cheerily pummeled him earlier hadn't also squashed his precious branch and plums. 'Well, perhaps not so completely brainless after all,' Petyr generously admitted of this new and unusual obstacle. Both the Not Stark's appearance and performance hadn't at all been what he'd anticipated. 'Never guess how a ghost will act,' he advised himself. Recalling the image of that 'man' started churning up the eerie feeling which had threatened to swamp the Mockingbird's cool demeanor during the so called parley inside the tent. Petyr fought down the unpleasant sensation, and its impossible implications, by reanalyzing every angle he'd viewed of no longer Happily Headless Ned for the tiniest sign of proof that the mirror perfect reflection was a Faceless Man.

At first, as the unbelievable reports of Tywin Lannister's catastrophic downfall at the hands of a resurrected Lord of Winterfell came to King's Landing, Petyr thought the rumor merely a clever ploy by Cat's boy to cause panic and further confound his enemies. The Stark spawn had after all proven himself a master strategist of sorts by arranging the defeat of not one, but two, Westerland armies, so the Master of Coin paid little heed to the nursery tale and focused his considerable intellect on how to use the coming chaos to advance his own already considerable and now threatened position in the game. But then, as the weeks turned into a month, and more and more detailed information on the '_Return of Dear Lord Eddard_' trickled in through his network of usually reliable sources, Petyr's initial notion of a particularly talented mummer playing at no longer Happily Headless Ned had slowly transformed into something actually alarming and sinister ... a Faceless Man. Dangerous questions began to assail him for which he had no answers; and the not knowing bothered him greatly. 'Why haven't Joffrey and Cersei, myself, or dare I hope Varys, simply not awoken one morning?' 'Where is the North's wealth that it can pay for this face changing assassin's seemingly endless charade?' 'Are the Faceless Men overturning centuries of tradition and making themselves players in Westeros? In the Game of Thrones?' 'What does the North hold over them to make the assassins their lackeys?' 'Is Ned Stark really not …'

He winced as his gelding's misstep jarred his bruised ribs and belly. No grumkin or snark had so rudely struck him; only a man. But one, who more importantly, had run an elaborate, and unfortunately very accurate, bluff; in hopes of tainting the Mockingbird in Cersei's not so clever, yet easy to anger emerald eyes. Fortunately no longer Happily Headless Ned had unwound a little too much rope in trying to snare all his enemies at once. Petyr saw the skeins this man, only a man, was trying to unravel; and the Mockingbird knew exactly how to use it. 'I can outwit this man,' he told himself. Reassured of his own superiority, the Mockingbird's mind unleashed its creativity to plan the complete destruction of House Stark and all its allies, open or otherwise. At last the creak from the opening of the Dragon Gate's thick wrought iron and oak beams brought him out of his delicious revenge laden revelry, 'We shall see who the better player in the Game of Thrones is now, Faceless Man?' the Mockingbird thought haughtily.

* * *

No, it was as Petyr expected, peering into the torch lit gloom as he passed out of the Dragon Gate. 'Too many thin reeds,' he told himself with acceptance. The situation was too tenuous to let mere feelings temper his actions. 'They would hesitate to attack on my say so, no matter the river of silver stags and golden dragons I've flowed through their pockets over the years.'

The score of Lannister red cloaks under the proficient captain Vylarr already stood more or less at attention atop their chargers. The gold cloaks, led by the buyable, biddable, morally flexible Allar Deem, scurried about in a show of typical incompetence. Half of the twenty with mounts were still trying to reach their sorry nags, let alone saddle up. And many of the eighty city watch on foot seemed to be reluctantly dragging their ringmail clad bodies away from the squalid pot shots, diseased whore closets, and rigged dice games lining the sides of the flagstone paved, shit invested traveler's square behind the gate. At least no white cloaks or lordlings high in the Queen's favor had been sent down in his absence to await the meager embassy's return. Up to a point, his authority as Master of Coin, and purveyor of many, many bribes, would stay undisputed as they returned to the Red Keep and the uncertain warmth of the Queen's magnificent bosom. So at least for now, Cersei's predictable paranoia over the need to guard her own and her precious Joffrey's fates from the northern wolves played to the Mockingbird's needs.

"Captain Vylarr! Captain Allar! Come release me Sers!" Petyr declared in a strong, authoritative voice, striving for the initiative. "The Starks have profaned the parley and lain hands upon me!"

The two men and their closest aides almost instantly started moving forward, staring hard through the dim light to see what the Master of Coin and member of the King's Small Council meant.

"No Baelish, you're mine," the Hound snarled, giving a jerk to the reins of Petyr's horse, pulling both the gelding and its rider closer to his hideous face and repugnant breath.

"No, Clegane, as a member of the Small Council I'm the King's, at least until the Queen Regent, your mistress, says otherwise. Now be a good dog and stop barking at your better," the Mockingbird replied in his best bored, superior tone.

"I'll smash your teeth in the next time you squeak, Littlefinger," the Hound rumbled menacingly, his gauntleted free hand flexing into a large, formidable fist.

"Because my mere words scare you?" the Mockingbird scoffed, calculating a slightly better than even chance that the thug's threat were a bluff. When nothing more than throaty growls answered his question, Petry immediately gestured as expansively as he could with his tied hands toward the approaching red and gold cloaked figures. "_Those_ will risk rescuing _me_ away from _you_?" he ridiculed. "I think not. And even if they did, where could I flee, hmmmnn? Back to the tender mercies of Ned Stark? No thank you, I'd rather keep my head; which is where it will stay when Cersei learns of all I have done to benefit her Grace."

"Lies," hissed Varys, finally breaking his silence since the Stark's tent. "Self-serving lies."

"Says the traitor who can only play with words since he doesn't have a cock to stroke. Why should I lie when the Stark truth leaves me in a far more palatable light then you, eh Eunuch?"

"Shut up!" Clegane snapped. "Or I'll piss in your dead mouths."

Feeling he'd taunted the dog as far as he could for the moment, Petyr offered the mindless brute a smile, but did not say a word.

Soon enough the pair of captains arrived. "Lord Baelish. Lord Varys. Lord Clegane," rumbled the commander of the Queen's Lannister guards uncertainly, having heard some of the hard words exchanged between the three and at last noticing two of them with bound hands. "What happened out there?"

"A simple misunderstanding, captain," Petyr answered, daring yet again to risk the Hounds wrath and apparently a mouth full of piss. "The Mummer Lord Stark sought to sow confusion amongst his enemies."

Allar Deem coughed nervously, clearly unsure of the situation. "How so, my lord?"

"By doing the unexpected, he told the truth. Now cut me free, Ser."

"Hold," Clegane snarled, causing both captains to remain still. "They're mine."

"And I'll gladly remain yours until you deliver us to her Grace's royal presence. The quicker the better," he urged.

"And me," spoke the Spider from beneath eyes as black as his soul.

'Oh there will be no alliance of convenience with you.' "No," Petyr snapped immediately. "Most assuredly not you, Eunuch. When tonight's truths are untwisted before the Queen, all I have done will prove my loyalty to House Lannister; and yours will only reveal a castrated dragon hiding beneath spider's silk."

"Shut up," barked the Hound, reaching for the dagger at his side.

Vylarr's eyes narrowed and he let a hand drift over to his blade in response to the unexpected promise of violence.

Allar Deem, revealing his true mettle, backed his horse away from the menacing Hound.

No one spoke as the Lannister's pet dog thought a moment. "Baelish yes. The Eunuch no," he announced with a growl.

Petyr let out the tiniest of sighs, victory. He'd succeeded in gaining the initiative; and now he'd enter Cersei' lush and drearily limited presence unbound. Appearance is everything and a chained Varys would shout a guilty Varys at the rash Queen. "Come, come, Ser Allar," the Mockingbird chided, wasting no time and wiggling his hands openly to spark the dullard into action.

"And what of these urchins?" Vylarr asked practically, jerking a hand at the mute handful of chained children lined up behind the newest and least knightly of the white cloaks.

The Hound shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "Bring'em, kill'em, I don't care. Stark thinks they're the Eunuch's spies."

The gold cloak captain had taken the hint, moved his mount close to Petyr, and started to unsheathe a pocket knife. "We need them alive," the Mockingbird chimed in. "They are … ow-ow-ow-ow," he broke off suddenly in pain, for the Hound had moved faster than the frequently bought officer and sliced not only through the rope binding his hands, but his gloves and the skin beneath too.

As the Master of Coin grimaced and fought back uttering an angry, and under the present circumstances very injudicious, retort at the brutish white cloak, Varys unctuous voice oozed out at its finest to fill the void. "…are the poor sweet leavings of the Starks' monstrous magic, and nothing to do with me. These precious babes, whose tongues were sliced off by cruel northern blades as offerings to their barbaric Old Gods in exchange for Lord Stark's return from the dead, are now ours to nurture, to guard. For that is the last thing the Wight of Winterfell seeks; instead, he inflames us so we will torture these dear ones in the black cells beneath the Red Keep until they tell false tales to incriminate the innocent, and thus complete his dark incantation and destroy all that which protects the Iron Throne."

If Petyr hadn't been so busy tending to his dog inflicted scratches, he'd have laughed. 'How pitiful, Varys. That's all you could come up with? Pathetic.' And then the Mockingbird did laugh out loud, for the Hound had reached out and backhanded the Spider across his simpering face. Though judging by the calculating look on the ugly brute's face when his gaze next fell on Petyr, he was seriously weighing whether or not to slap him too.

"Lord Clegane!" Captain Vylarr burst unhappily, uncertain how to react to the open violence against one of the Small Council; but thankfully, yet, not a second one.

"Oh the traitor had it coming," Petyr interjected with a pain enhanced sneer, trying to stay on the angry Hound's good side. "He's been plotting for a Targaryen restoration since the moment our Grace's brave uncle put an end to Aerys the Mad. And these ones," he jabbed fingers at the sly wretches, "are nothing more than Lord Clegane said, his spies; mute slaves brought over from Pentos to do the Spider's underhanded bidding."

"Truly?" muttered a perplexed Allar Deem.

"Could be," the Hound replied bad-temperedly, unsure which if any of the long list of lies he'd heard that night held any actual truth and irritated at the effort it was taking to try and unravel.

"So where did all these mutilated mongrels come from then? Oh, Ser Vylarr, Ser Allar, there were at least a score more just like this gathered back in the Northerns' tent. And while there is much I loathe about their icy ilk; aside perhaps than their Flaying Lord Bolton, cutting children is not one of their many vices." The men gathered around the Mockingbird, other than the woozy Eunuch, all nodded in agreement at his statement. 'Good, I have them for the moment,' he thought. "Sergeant Waters," Petyr continued, addressing Deem's deputy most deeply in his pay. "I fear my own modest collection of establishments must be swarming with the Eunuch's spies. Please go to my manor, the one not far from the Old Gate. You know it?"

"Yesh, Lerd Baylesh," the middle aged lisper, street bully, and pedophile answered.

"Tell my Steward Rolland that 'the spider is loose.'" 'Though you'll pronounce it 'loosh,' fool.' And that my sellswords are to capture any tongue-less children who work or frequent my homes and businesses. This must all be done tonight, lest word reaches these perverted waifs of their Master's imprisonment and they try to rescue him through secret passages and the use of poisons," Petyr explained, trying to play on everyone's fears of the Master of Whisperers. 'If there's anyone who knows more of the bolt holes Maegor hid throughout the Red Keep than I, it's you Varys,' he thought nastily.

The child fucker looked down at the chained youths, while chewing at his lower, chapped lip. "So's weeze kills'em?"

'After you bugger them, you mean?' "I don't care how badly you rough up the little devils catching them. But I want them alive and brought to the Red Keep. They are evidence of the Spider's treason against the crown." 'Not that Cersei will wait long to let no longer Happily Headless Ned chop off your head Varys, me thinks. And if I'm truly lucky, Ser Ilyn will swing even sooner than that; and wouldn't that be wonderfully ironic to have a tongue-less man remove your shaved dome after all the naughty things you and your little birds have done. Maybe I can take your ugly skull with me as a souvenir when I desert this rat infested sinking ship. Perhaps somewhere in the Free Cities I can reunite it with your long lost cock and balls. Two heads are better than one.'

"That sounds a clever move, Lord Baelish," Captain Vylarr agreed. "I think we should set a search too once we get to the Red Keep. What say you, Captain Deem?"

"Aye. Let's do so," concurred the pliable gold cloak.

'Hopeless, unless I lead them by the hand.' "Why not spread word about these assassins among the rest of the watch right now," the Mockingbird added. "I think, as Master of Coins," 'for now,' he added to himself, "I can safely state that our Grace will gladly offer a gold dragon as reward for each tongue-less spy, no matter how small, handed over to the crown."

"Very wise." "The King is generous." "Down with traitors." Many of the gathered gold cloaks murmured.

'And by this time tomorrow Flea Bottom will be devoid of street urchins and all the bowls o' brown will taste like tongue. Oh, one last thing' "Captain Vylarr. Captain Allar. When my trusted sellswords bring any waifs found in my establishments tonight to the Red Keep, will the gate be open for them or must they wait until morning to enter?"

The two men looked sagely at each other.

"We will leave word at the postern door," Vylarr rasped.

"Excellent. Now that we seem to have things well in hand. Let us take the Eunuch to the Queen and justice." He bobbed his head in acknowledgement to the unhappily befuddled looking Hound. "Lead on Ser."

The usual angry look returned to the jumped up white cloak. "I'm no Ser," he growled. "And you wag your tongue too much."

'You may be a dog and certainly are no Ser,' thought the Mockingbird smugly. 'But you are a sheep, just like everyone else.' Feeling reassured of his mastery over any situation, Petyr wished for some wine, a sour red would do nicely; his jaw still ached from where no longer Happily Headless Need had hit him.


	14. Chapter 13 - Robb (II)

**Robb (II)**

He tried hard not to stare at his father. No one, other than Roose Bolton, said much after the Lannister's trio of lackeys unceremoniously left the tent, and what the Lord of the Dreadfort did say was in his usual, annoying half whisper. Most of the great lords hid behind their cups of wine, some cleverly and some obviously, but all clearly just as disturbed as Robb at witnessing the honorable Lord of Winterfell break the sanctity of the parley by striking one of the false King's ambassadors; and that more than once. By ones and twos, as convenient excuses of duty or nature calling were made, the tent emptied of Lord Mallister, Lady Mormont, Lord Cerwyn, Ser Stevron, the Greatjon, and finally the pale Flaying Lord, until only Ser Olyvar and family remained.

"T'was ill done, Lord Eddard," said the Blackfish sternly, the first to speak in the reduced gathering.

"Uncle!" his mother protested.

Edmure cleared his throat and nervously plucked at the silver Trout shaped silver clasp holding together the ends of his river blue-green colored cloak. "No, Cat. Uncle Brynden has the right of it. My goodbrother has cast a stain; though only a small one, mind" he interjected quickly, "on the honor of his House."

'And by association on all the Houses serving him, including you, Uncle,' Robb continued to himself, acknowledging the unspoken concern of his father's departed chief banners.

His father at first said nothing. He simply closed his eyes and downed the rest of his wine in a single long draught. "Honor," he whispered disgustedly. "What do they know of honor? The leeches Lord Roose so loves have more honor than those slimy eels."

"They have none, my lord," Ser Brynden acknowledged with a curt bob of his head. "Which helped make your plan to turn the dogs against themselves so fiendishly clever. Still, there was no reason to …"

"No reason?!" his father shouted. "When Lord Baelish lusts after my daughter Sansa and whores her best friend, the child of my own Steward, in his brothels? When that foul white cloak can slay smallfolk at a whim and call it justice? When Lord Varys rips the tongues out of small children!?"

"The Father shall weigh their miserable souls when the Stranger marks them. But it is your soul, Lord Eddard, a soul I thought noble, that concerns me," the Blackfish chastised. "There are codes a true knight abides by; sacred laws followed by both the First Men and the Andals," the Blackfish chastised. "I fear you have foresworn them and that the Lannisters may now violate their word when next we meet."

"You fear Cersei may violate her word?" his father choked incredulously. He shook his head bitter and grabbed the nearest goblet discarded by one of the departed lords. "And do you have any fear for the six children I've just sent off to the black cells beneath the Red Keep? To Illyn Payne's tender mercies?" he asked, before swallowing the dregs from his chalice.

A small look of discomfort flitted over Ser Brynden's face. "Well … it is …"

His father turned away from the Blackfish in disgust and addressed the man's nephew. "And what of you, Edmure? Does their fate not bother your sense of 'Family, Duty, Honor'?"

Uncle Edmure shrugged indifferently. "They were spies, proven guilty before the Seven by the very words they wrote down to your questions, goodbrother. Their lives are forfeit. What matter if they are children?"

"Children. I feared for the fate of children once," his father said with a long drawn out sigh, while picking up another cup. In a louder, pained voice, he continued. "I mourned the death of Rhaegar's offspring at the claws of the Lion, even though he, ultimately, was to blame for my father's, my brother's, and my sister's deaths. When I confronted Cersei, and told her I knew of her heinous sin with her brother, still I thought of the children. I begged her to take them to Essos, away from Robert's inevitable wrath. And what did that earn me?" He took a swallow of wine. "Robert death; and myself betrayed, thrown in a black cell, not to know what had become of my Arya and Sansa. Oh how they then played on my fears; visiting me now and again to stoke them, but always showing me a way out. 'Such a small lie to make, Lord Eddard, for the good of the realm,' they'd say. Until, at last, I, Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand of the King, willingly proclaimed my treason against the rightful King Joffrey, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, to ensure, I hoped, I prayed, my children's safety." Robb's father spat on the floor to show his feelings for the bastard and the lie they'd wrenched out of him.

His mother reached out and clutched at his father, briefly drawing him to her arms.

"No Cat, no," he muttered, pulling free. "Where was my honor then Ser Brynden? Lord Edmure? I forsook the memory of my King, my friend, my brother. I forsook my duty to the Kingdom. I forsook my personal honor, all for children. Well!? Where … was … my … honor then?! And how do I get it back?"

No one answered.

"I thought not," his father said like a curse. He drank again. "I'll never, never worry where my honor stands against the likes of them, who chopped my head off and called it mercy. Well they won't have it again! And I'll be damned if I let you stupidly serve it up to them on the silver platter of my so called honor!"

"Ned," his mother pleaded.

"S'alright," his father slurred, suddenly sounding both very drunk and very tired. "Everything … s'alright. We'll get Sansa back … somehow."

Robb's mother began to weep openly.

"Brynden, Edmure, kindly take my … my lady wife with you to your tents for the night, it's been an o'er long day and I fear I'm poor company for her now," his father commanded.

They nodded in agreement.

"Neeeed," his mother moaned softly.

"Come, Cat," Uncle Brynden whispered, taking her hand and tugging it gently.

Reluctantly she started moving, but never taking her eyes off her husband.

It hurt Robb to see his mother so unhappy, so weak; she'd been such a tower of strength for him on the long, unsure march from Moat Cailin to Riverrun.

Father appeared indifferent to her needs and returned her weepy gaze with hard, still angry eyes. "Ser Olyvar," he announced. "Make the rounds of the camp, then go to bed; we'll be up early tomorrow, lots to do."

His old squire bowed his head.

"Robb, you've a young bride waiting you," the Lord of Winterfell announced, dismissing him. He then turned his back on his family to search for another cup of wine.

The others had the decency to obey their distraught lord and leave. But Robb stayed rooted to the spot, staring at a man he hardly recognized. That man began humming a curious tune, one Robb had never heard before.

The Lord of Winterfell found an unemptied cup, stopped his humming long enough to grunt, and then raised the wine towards his lips, where he paused, as out of the corner of his icy grey eyes he spotted Robb over the rim, standing motionless. The cup lowered a bit. The humming ended. "I'm not who you remember, am I?" he asked quietly.

"No, father," Robb answered.

The man nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement. "I'm not who I remember either." And then the humming started up again.

The young man bowed and turned to go. "Come Grey Wind," he called. From the point in the tent farthest away from his father, the large dire wolf stood up, stretched a moment, and padded softly after him.

As he stepped foot out through the large tent's side flap, a short, slender figure clasped on to him.

"Arya?" he whispered.

"Robb, I'm scared for father," a girl sniffled.

"Shhhhh." Definitely Arya Underfoot. "Listen," he said softly into his sister's ear.

Back inside the tent, his father's humming grew louder and then turned to half sung words.

"_Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, ah saw thee?  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, ah saw thee?  
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee?  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at"  
_

His father started a new stanza.

_"Tha's been a cooartin' Mary Jane  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at …"  
_

"What's he singing?" Arya asked, evidently confused.

Robb shook his head. "Nothing I've ever heard."

"Is it the old tongue?" his sister wondered.

"Nooooo," he answered doubtfully. "I think … I think it's the common tongue, but with an odd accent."

"_Tha's bahn' to catch thy deeath o' cowd  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
Tha's bahn' to catch thy deeath o' cowd …"  
_

"Your … bound to catch thy … death of cold?" Robb translated quietly into Arya's ear as his father kept on with the sad melody. "On Ilkley Moor … without a hat. On Ilkley Moor without a hat."

"_Then us'll ha' to bury thee  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at …"  
_

Arya's grip on Robb's arm tightened. "Then us will have to bury thee," she uttered softly, picking up on the brogue words herself.

_"Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee up  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee up  
Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee up …"  
_

His sister squeezed him with every ounce of her wiry strength. "Then the worms will come and eat thee up. Oh, Robb," she shuddered.

The pit growing in his stomach positively lurched and heaved too. 'Father can show an icy face to the world better than anyone,' the young man thought. 'But this? What's wrong?' For the most part Robb hadn't enjoyed all the killing in the Whispering Woods or outside Riverrun. Only deep in the night, when he woke from blood filled dreams to see Grey Wind twitching asleep on the rug beside him and the slumbering Roslin, did he guiltily admit he had some taste for the blood lust that had come upon him in battle. Never could he imagine though that the man before him, the giant of his childhood, the hero of Robert's Rebellion, could ever be disturbed to the point of unbalance by all the killing normal to war.

"Should we get mother?" Arya whispered.

"No," he replied, and patted his sister's head to reassure her; to reassure himself through the closeness with his pack mate. 'I wish Jon were here,' Robb wistfully thought, wanting to share this burden with his pack brother who now guarded the Wall, two thousand miles away. Images of Jon all clothed in black, marching through the dark atop towering blocks of ice, Ghost by his side, filled his mind. He sighed, releasing the vision, only to have it replaced by another, that of a familiar smirking smile. 'Or Theon.' He wrinkled his mouth, still not understanding why his father had commanded his friend to remain behind in Riverrun and learn how another Great House run its business. 'Father never did warm to Theon. And now he's almost outright hostile to him.' Robb wondered what lies about the fosterling had reached his lord father's ears.

"… _Then us'll all ha' etten thee  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at_

That's wheear we get us ooan back  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
That's wheear we get us ooan back  
That's wheear we get us ooan back  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at  
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at"

When his father's rough base voice finished the last verse of the eldritch sounding tune, he drained the cup in his hand, and then declared angrily to no one, "That's where we get our own back."

'No, definitely not the man I remember,' Robb thought, drawing his sister away from the tent flap. 'But then I'm not the boy I was either, am I?' he suddenly realized. 'I was a King.' He remembered how uncomfortable and heavy that weight had laid on him. And then he noticed Arya was still looking up at him, her barely seen eyes pleading for answers to her worries. "We'll talk to mother in the morning, alone. Alright?"

Arya nodded.

"But first, we need to talk. Father's been different since … after … you know."

Anger and pain and memories swelled up in his sister's face. "Ilyn Payne cut his head off," she growled.

Robb scrunched up his lips. "Well … yeah." The usual doubts that nagged at him whenever he thought of his father's changes returned. "I guess that might alter his perspective a bit," he said, feeling stupid for having said it.

"Ya think!" Arya snapped.

Robb sighed. He really didn't know what to think.


	15. Chapter 14 - Littlefinger (II)

**Littlefinger (II)**

Cersei jabbed an imperious finger at the guard nearest her and impatiently tapped it downward. The observant sentry responded quickly and began vigorously pounding his spear butt against the stone floor, a beat promptly picked up by the other red cloaks standing about the edges of the Queen's Ballroom. The heavy reverberations cut through the maddening din that had followed Petyr from his very entry into the Outer Bailey, all the long weaving way through the Red Keep, and into the last citadel of Maegor's Holdfast. The Mockingbird hadn't at all minded the clamor surrounding the return of the Queen's 'embassy' from the parley, it alerted his agents to his arrival; and more hopefully, as rumor undoubtedly flew ahead of him, gave time to the smarter and more loyal ones to prepare. One by one, the competing, shouting voices died away until only the noise of the boy King's adolescent tantrum remained to bounce angrily between the walls and reflect peevishly off the polished mirrors behind each embedded torch sconce.

"Kill them, I command it!" the blonde child ranted yet again, the most common refrain to pass his pouty lips since joining up with the party of royal ambassadors back near the keep's main gate.

"Joffrey!" his mother barked, seeking to silence him.

Petyr calmly noted how her lovely face and emerald eyes blazed with a level of fury she once typically only reserved for her not so dearly departed husband. 'Good,' he thought, 'don't think with your silly little brain.'

"They're dirty traitors!" the worthless, spoiled bastard raged, pointing the crossbow he'd been using to take potshots at the unhappy masses mulling about the square outside the keep, begging for food. "I'll kill them myself and turn their heads over to the Starks."

'The head they want most is yours, especially once they see what you've made of their sweet Sansa, my poor, doomed kinglet,' the Mockingbird sang to himself.

"Enough," Cersei ground through teeth so tightly clenched her mouth may as well have been Stannis Baratheon's.

"Mother," her son whined.

The Queen stood up with a swoosh of her lovely gold laced gown; her impressive teats wobbling wantonly, barely contained beneath a quite sheer décolletage. "Enough," she dangerously faux whispered.

The King shut his petulant and, praise the Seven, even stupider mouth.

The daughter of Tywin Lannister, face smoldering, picked up a flute glass and tossed off its contents, before darting her eyes back and forth between the sources behind the current upheaval within her court. Several empty pieces of glassware dotted the table in front of where Cersei had just been seated. The Queen, Petyr knew, had a certain low cunning, surprising in one so full of her own importance. 'Must come from being a woman,' the Mockingbird suspected. Luckily it would not be aided this evening by either her temper or her fondness for drink. 'Unless she has me struck dead here where I stand,' he thought sadly, ruefully admitting to himself the strong possibility of such an unfortunate event occurring. 'Well, time to take charge.' And the dapper, slender, handsome man stepped forward with exaggerated carefulness to pluck a glass for himself off the table, purposefully drawing attention to his injuries.

The Queen's eyes narrowed in on the unexpected, disrespectful movement of her councilor and immediately spotted his bloody forearms. "Lord Baelish, you appear ill-used," she stated with a displeasure aimed not at the status of his health but at the need for having to address him at all.

The Mockingbird smiled, while tilting his head and eyes in the direction of the Hound. "Merely some over exuberant puppy love, your Grace. Please, think nothing of it," he answered drily.

"Don't worry, I shan't. But what am I to think of these … unholy accusations made against the trusted members of my son's own Small Council," she choked out with controlled fury.

Petyr's smile widened. "Why, they're all true, your Grace," the Mockingbird answered cheerfully.

Gasps of shock broke from the crowd still loitering in the ballroom.

"Oh my sweet Grace, do not believe his lies," Varys keened.

"Mother!" Joffrey shouted angrily.

The Queen jabbed out a thickly be ringed hand again, and the pounding of spears returned to remonstrate the audience back to silence.

"Would you care to explain, Littlefinger?" she growled, voice dangerously dropping several octaves.

"Happily, your Grace. But ….?" And here Petyr craned his neck from side to side to take in the throng of on lookers, who until minutes before had been enjoying the bounty of the royal table. "the simple truth sometimes requires more explanation than the most elaborate lie. Perhaps t'would be wiser to have fewer ears listening in, eh?"

Cersei stood there dumbfounded for a moment at the Mockingbird's audacity. "Joffrey, Lord Janos, Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Gyles, please remain. The rest of you have my leave to go," she commanded.

The mass of gathered lordlings and ladies bowed, as was their particular want, to either the King or the Queen Regent; and for the most sycophantic to both. Over the shuffling of feet heading towards the doorways, Petry heard the jingle of bells announcing Moon Boy's departure. And through the corner of his eye he was exceptionally pleased to spot the newest motley fool, Ser Dontos, exit the sumptuous hall in the company of Sansa. 'A pity what Joffrey's lackeys have done to your looks, child. You were so very much like Cat. Tcha.' The emptied room still also held Captains Vylarr and Allar, Ser Boros, Ser Preston, Ser Arys, young Lancel, the younger Tyrek, the red cloak dinner guards, Ser Illyn Payne, and his compatriots in muteness, Varys' six chained waifs.

As the doors finally closed, Cersei announced, "This better be good, Littlefinger. I've never trusted you, for enough coin you'd go over to Stannis or Renly in a heartbeat. One wrong word and you're Ser Ilyn's" As the King's Justice rasped his throaty cackle, now probably sporting a cock stand at the idea of taking another head, the Queen regally lowered herself and her magnificent bosom back down into her dinner chair.

Petry grinned. "The night the old King died, when I assured Ned Stark he would have the support of the gold cloaks come the morning, he apologized for not having trusted me before. I then told him that not having trusted me was the only smart move he'd ever made in King's Landing."

Joffrey scowled at the mention of the now mysterious grumkin Stark. Cersei scowled at the memory of how narrow an edge the start of her son's reign had rested on and being reminded she had the Mockingbird to thank for it. Janos Slynt and Allar Deem scowled at the implication that their services could be, and frequently were, bought. The rest, save Clegane, all scowled simply at the cheek of the Master of Coin's initial response. Only the Hound laughed, a strangled sound of amusement acknowledging the obvious truth of the statement.

The Mockingbird continued, "But what use would a man of my business persuasions have for Stannis? A man who would make whore houses illegal. Or Renly, who has no idea what the inside of a whore house, or even a whore, looks like? No, I'm bound as tight to your Grace's cause as any other loyal Lannister banner."

"Which is why you killed Lord Arryn?" the strikingly beautiful golden blonde with as much ice in her veins as any northerner asked chillily.

"I should think not. I killed Lord Jon for my own benefit. Loyalty does not demand a lack of self-interest from the humble servant. The aid his death brought to House Lannister in this instance was merely coincidental."

"Then Lady Lysa …?"

"Oh I've been tickling her velvet purse since the day my first cock hair sprouted," the Mockingbird replied with a smirk. "You can't imagine," he groaned dramatically, "how difficult it's been keeping a woman of her lusty temperament satisfied all these years with only the occasional bout under the covers." 'Oh yes, I well imagine you can Cersei, not that I'm stupid enough to utter that aloud.' "So after fifteen years, she could no longer abide sharing a bed with that doddering lump. He had to go or Lysa swore she'd stab him while he snored." Petyr sighed. "A pinch of poison was all it took." He stopped and turned his gaze at another figure seated at the table, not far from the Queen. "Well that and our good Pycelle not only botching his recovery, but moving the Hand along even faster into the Mother's arms. Tears of Lys, wasn't it, eh Grand Maester?"

"Ahem," the old man coughed, puffing himself up indignantly like some fat bird trying to make something out of his dreary plumage. "Jon Arryn was a kindly lord, the … the enemy of no man. Ahem. I resent your accusation, Lord Baelish."

The Mockingbird laughed and the Spider tittered together at Pycelle's discomfort.

"As I said, your Grace, the hard truth is often more difficult to hear than the lie. All I've ever desired since I fostered at Riverrun was marriage to the Lady Lysa. For that I needed Jon Arryn dead and to use my loyal service on the Small Council to be granted a title noble enough, worthy enough, to wed the widowed Lady Regent of the Vale."

The Queen pursed her lips, obviously weighing the explanation she'd just received. Apparently satisfied, she promptly moved on. "And what is the truth of telling the Starks' my brother Tyrion's dagger was used to try and kill their son Bran? Were you trying to start a war between House Lannister and Winterfell, fool?!" the Queen demanded, white hot anger finally boiling to the surface.

"Kill him, mother," Joffrey demanded yet again, stepping forward to poke the Master of Coin with his unloaded crossbow.

'The stupidity really is inbreed into you. What special seeds have the Seven planted in Tommen and Myrcella thanks to your parents ... love?' "Your Grace," Petyr replied, addressing himself to the King. "I'm touched at the heartfelt concern for your uncle, the one you so affectionately call 'Imp.'"

"Step carefully, Littlefinger," hissed Cersei, her pearly white, poisonous fangs showing.

"Yes, do, Lord Baelish," the Eunuch agreed ironically.

The Hounds massive paw dropped heavily on the Mockingbird's wing and Joffrey prodded at the magnificent black plumage again with his shaftless bow.

"Oh you wound me, your Graces. I tried to prevent war, assuredly."

"How?!" the King screeched, voice breaking.

"The dragonbone dagger Lady Catelyn showed me was undoubtedly one I'd once owned, and had lost in a wager, but not to Lord Tyrion."

"Then who?!" Cersei snapped.

"To your husband, your Grace."

The Queen's eyes narrowed suspiciously, her feeble mind trying to work out the implications of the statement.

"Ask young Lancel there," Petyr continued with equanimity. "He was the King's squire that day. He'll remember the wager made, since it depended on the victory or defeat of his dear cousin, Ser Jaime, in a joust. Well Ser?" he asked, address the pimply sprog.

"It's true, Cer … cousin," the youth chirped.

"Now, when out of the blue, confronted by Lady Catelyn, did I, did anyone, truly want her husband Lord Eddard investigating Robert for the murder attempt on poor, crippled young Bran Stark?" the Mockingbird asked. "Or perhaps, more importantly, who of King Robert's court present in drab, frozen Winterfell would have had access to his dragonbone blade?"

Petyr believed he saw a sliver of awareness break through Cersei's shaded from reality emerald eyes; and a thaw in the danger he faced appear.

Joffrey however nervously licked his lips and asked. "Why the Imp?"

The Mockingbird sighed. 'And now it's 'Imp?' Stupid. So truly, utterly stupid. I'd have enjoyed manipulating your court, but not now, when your reign will be measured in days, if not hours.' "In the Game of Thrones, your Grace, much like in Cyvasse, rabble and lowly spearmen must sometimes be sacrificed to protect the King. And such is all your uncle Tyrion is good for. A Lannister, thus worthy of being a piece on the board, but one I erroneously thought no one would worry about seeing removed; after what I hoped to be a long, frustrating chase by the too honor bound for his own good Hand of the King. I unfortunately didn't account for the off chance that his lady wife might encounter the Imp on her long, tedious journey back to Winterfell. Of that offense I plead guilty." 'Your meddling was quite unappreciated, Cat,' Petyr thought.

Cersei still looked unhappy, but her head tilted just enough to show she had listened to the Mockingbird's song seriously, likely even soothed by it.

"Oh how tidily you wrap your filth, Lord Baelish, and pronounce the ordure a name day present," the Eunuch scathed.

"Come now, Varys, I've admitted my crimes," Petyr intoned, the very essence of reasonability. "I aimed to become the Lady Lysa's lover, her husband; to even rule the Vale through her. Admit yours; Stark was right, you scheme for the return of the Targaryens. You've never stopped serving them these last fifteen years, have you?"

For barely the length of a blink, never before seen emotions warred on the Spider's soft, pudgy face; then the familiar, overly sweet voice spoke. "Oh how you wound me, Petyr; clutching at the straws offered you by a dead man to try and obscure your own guilt." Titter, titter. "But our wise Queen can cleverly see through your games, you shan't get away with fooling her into pulling others down into the pit of treason with you."

The Mockingbird laughed. "Oh there's plenty of time for the Grand Maester to draw the truth out of your passel of beakless little birds over there. I'll be happy to wait; and then see you exchanged along with fair Sansa to Lord Stark for Ser Jaime."

"Is he?! Is he Eddard Stark?" the Queen asked nervously.

"Certainly," Petyr answered.

"No, a Faceless Man, your Grace," Varys replied.

'Of course he's a Faceless Man, but the idea of a Ned Stark returned from the dead makes your heart beat faster beneath those delectable teats. Doesn't it Cersei?'

"It's him alright," the Hound grunted.

"And why wouldn't I hand the both of you over Lord Petyr, along with his stupid chit of a daughter, for my dear brother?" Cersei demanded.

"So you don't appear weak, your Grace," the Mockingbird interjected quickly.

"I'm never weak!" the Queen huffed.

"Of course not," Petyr agreed. "Only one better suited for a fool's motley would think so, your Grace. Which is why you're too strong to give Ned Stark exactly what he's demanding from you." He stepped forward again to the table and plucked an apple slice off a plate, every eye in the room on him. Crunch. "Delicious. I'd send the Hound back out tomorrow with a counter offer. Tell the northerners you'll give them Sansa and one head for brave Ser Jaime; I expect he'll take it." 'But by then Sansa and I will have disappeared like dust in the wind.'

"But who's head, dear Lord Petyr?" the Eunuch tittered. "I'm rather fond of mine. And so many interesting things in it still to tell to her Grace; things to reveal about the too clever for his own good Master of Coin."

"Oh you bore me so, Eunuch. Your Grace, may I have leave to return to my suite? I fear not what he will tell you, and I find myself …" he reached out to snare another apple slice. Crunch. "… hmmn, could use some cinnamon … I find myself in need of sustenance."

The Hound laughed at the Mockingbird's balls.

"So you may flee through a bolt hole," hissed Varys. "And desert her grace."

"I rather think you're secretive ways are more of a concern, Spider. But I would happily take Captain Vylarr with me, or if you could spare one, a kingsguard, to my quarters. I mind not having a keeper set close eyes to me while I sleep; so long as he doesn't wish to share the bed. I'm not Lord Renly after all."

Joffrey, Lancel, Tyrek, and the Hound all chortled at Petyr's wit. Cersei even smiled too.

"I find I tire of you as well, Lord Baelish," the Queen responded. Ser Arys! Captain Vylarr! Kindly take the Master of Coin back to his rooms. Stay with him and make sure he goes nowhere. I shall pass judgment on him in the morning. Be careful, he may not sleep well as he awaits."

"Yes, your Grace." "Yes, your Grace."

"Too kind," the Mockingbird answered cheerily, while bowing. "I shall sleep like a babe."

"Or the dead," the Eunuch wished.

"Now Lord Varys, I shall hear your story. Is there any truth that those tortured urchins work as your spies?"

Petyr couldn't keep the smile off his face as he left the Queen's Ballroom, marching between the grizzled red cloak captain and the handsomest, Jaime Lannister aside, as while as the most gullible of the Kingsguard.

They wove their way down rush lit corridors and climbed stairs towards the tiny apartment awarded the Mockingbird in the holdfast as part of his sinecure as Master of Coin. Petyr seldom spent much time there, his personally owned establishments being more conducive to his lifestyle and chosen profession. However, as the Northern and Riverland army began to encroach on the environs of King's Landing and the actions of the royal court became more erratic, he had begun to spend some time in the tedious set of rooms hither too mostly ignored. At one point he informed his dull witted companions, "I must warn you Sers, my rooms will already be occupied by my hapless page Hyle. Or he better be patiently awaiting my return there unless he yearns for a strong whipping." The pair of dullards merely grunted acknowledgment. Apparently the verbal machinations in the Mockingbird's playing of the Game of Thrones having struck them both dumb.

Reaching his door, they found it locked; so the Lannister captain knocked none to gently to announce their arrival.

"Coming," a voice called from within.

Petyr waited patiently, one forearm raised up against his body; two fingers resting on the silver mockingbird pendant pinned to his chest.

Creak. The door opened.

"My lords?" the page's voice called.

"We have special guests, Hyle." Petyr waggled the pair of digits lying on his chest. "Two very special guests. Go see about some wine. Do we have any of that Hedgeberry vintage from Brownhollow? That would go over quite nicely this night."

The page's mouth puffed and wobbled like a fish out of water. "Ye .. ye .. yes, my lord. Right away, my lord. This way my lords."

Vylarr peered in around the edge of the doorway before stepping through while Hyle shuffled off back toward's the study. "Clear," he mumbled.

"May I?" the Mockingbird asked sarcastically.

"Please go ahead, my lord," Ser Arys murmured politely.

"Thank you." Petyr strode confidently forward moving straight towards the door his page had already retreated through. "Follow me to the flagon gentlemen," he proclaimed, never removing the fingers from off his pendant.

"I find myself quite parched after my dealings with her Grace," he said, turning his head to speak to his close following guards as he passed through the doorway. "Glasses, Hyle." First the red cloak entered, then the white cloak. "Now!"

"Awuk!" gurgled Ser Arys Oakheart, a dagger plunged down over the collar of his shimmering chest plate into his neck.

Captain Vylarr spun quickly, hand already drawing steel, to meet the attacker hid behind the door. But not fast enough.

Twa-thunk!

A crossbow bolt sank to its fletching in the red cloak's chest.

The Mockingbird stepped forward to grab the mortally injured man's arm, ensuring the formerly vigorous guard couldn't still pull his blade all the way out and wreak some unexpected havoc.

Thud. Arys Oakheart's corpse hit the floor. The shadowy image behind the deceased white cloak stepped forward.

"Not through the cloak, Lothor; I'll need that."

A hand twitched the mass of cloak in back of the captain to the side, and then Petyr felt the man's body move as a sharp blade jabbed into a kidney.

"Neatly done," the Mockingbird pronounced, reaching up to untie the strings on the red cloak and then twirl the mass of cloth up and over onto his own shoulders.

"You as well, Hyle."

"Thank you, my lord," his page said between loud swallows.

Thud. Captain Vylarr's body hit the floor too.

"Killing your first man's never easy."

"No .. no .. no lord," Hyle stuttered.

"Have a drink," and Petyr gestured to the bottle sitting on his desk. "Then go to the dungeon tower roof, light the green torch, and set it where I told you. Alright?"

The page nodded and poured himself a glass.

Petyr smiled encouragingly at the boy and poured two more glasses, handing one over to the Hedge Knight and henchman Lothor Brune. "Cheers." It was a tangy Arbor with a hint of citrus.

"Better, Hyle?"

"I … I think so, my lord."

"Good, then off with you. We'll be waiting for you at the bottom of the cliff. You remember where the hand holds are? Good. Next stop, Pentos. And you can be sure I'll let the whores of my brothel there know what a fierce killer you are, Hyle."

An eager grin split through the dolt's nerves, and then the boy shot off like a startled doe in the woods.

When they heard the sound of his suite's exterior door closing, the freerider set down his glass and asked with a grunt, "Kill him?"

"Of course," the Mockingbird answered matter of factly.

"The girl?"

"Yes, we'll check her room first. If she's not there, she's likely in the godswood with that fool Dontos. I saw them leave the Queen's ballroom together."

Another grunt of acknowledgement. Then the grey haired warrior reached down and pulled out a simple helm with a noseguard. "Here."

The Mockingbird sighed. He never enjoyed putting anything on top of his well coifed hair, but if needs must. So he settled the heavy, ugly piece of metal atop his head, completing his disguise as yet another red cloak.

The pair departed and trudged for five minutes through the maze of Maegor's Holdfast till they came to the Lady Sansa's gilded cage. A gold cloak and some sell sword stood guard outside her door. Well the gold cloak at least actually stood.

"Cap'n Vylarr wants t'know iz de lady back in?" Petyr asked in gruff, unrecognizable voice.

"Nay," the sellsword said from the stool on which he perched.

The Mockingbird could sense Lothor behind him slowly slipping a dagger back into its sheath.

"Ulright, t'en. Sends word ta de cap'n when she do."

"Fuck d'at," the lazy sellsword spat. "I don't fight fer him."

Petyr shrugged. "Y'er arse den." And off he and Lothor Brune marched, heading for the bridge out of the Holdfast.

At the gate, Ser Meryn held duty that night for the white cloaks, but he didn't give a second look to the aging hedge knight and the short red cloak as they passed over the dry, metal spiked moat. When they reached the top of the serpentine stairs, Petyr thought he saw a pale green light flickering atop the Dungeon Tower roof. 'Good, young Hyle didn't lose his barely descended balls and did his task. A pity Hyle will never get a chance to use them.' As the Mockingbird thought of his page's coming demise, another part of his brain was already calculating how long before a certain, small boat would be setting out from the south shore of the Blackwater.

In ten minutes, they reached the gate to the Godswood. As useless a piece of land as the Master of Coin had ever seen. Nearly a seventh the total space sitting on top of Aegon's Hill devoted to what? Pretend gods and simple trees. The sentimentality of people, even that of ruthless killers like Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel, knew no bounds. Petyr got a thrill exploiting the foibles of sheep to his own ends. "Wait for me here, Lothor," he commanded. "If Dontos comes out with me and Sansa, kill him."

"Aye," the hedge knight grunted.

A bit of moonlight trickled through the thinning clouds above King's Landing, helping to light the Mockingbird's way as he flitted between the trees in search of his passport to freedom and sweet revenge. From the first day he set eyes on Sansa Stark, he'd dreamed of taking her maidenhead, feeling her delicious pain just as he had her mother. He stopped and sighed. That, alas, was no longer to be. Still, he would get a different sort of pleasure out of the pain he'd use her to bring out of Cat and … "No, he's just a Faceless Man," he whispered to himself.

Then, the edge of his vision picked up an ethereal figure dancing and dodging among the huge elms and black cottonwoods filling the Godswood. Nothing else caught his eye. Sansa was alone. He moved to intercept her.

"Uhh. Uhh. Uhh," she sobbed softly.

Petyr stepped out from a tree. "Sansa," he called.

She pulled up right in front of him, caught right in a moonbeam that reflected off the thick scar in her nearer cheek.

"Oh," she panted in surprise. "Lord Petyr?"

"Yes, sweetling, it's me;" He reached out with both hands and wrapped them around her trembling ones, "your friend Petyr. I've come to rescue you, dear child, from this madness. Joffrey and the Queen, they destroy everything they touch. There's a boat coming. We must move swiftly and …"

Suddenly Sansa shrieked, yanking her hands away from Petyr's.

Something spun the slender man around. A large, dark figure loomed menacingly over him in the night gloom of the godswood. "Clegane …" he sputtered in shock.

"Shut up!" the Dog barked.

Then an unbelievable wave of agony swept over Petyr; pain as great as that long ago day when Brandon Stark gutted him. His legs wobbled dangerously. Sheets of wetness flowed down his front and legs. "Ga … ga … ga" he gasped pointlessly, uncontrollably.

A meaty sound filled his ears. And the dagger of pain left his belly, only to be replaced by an unquenchable cauldron of fire. The Mockingbird looked down in disbelief to see the faint outline of a huge bloody hole in his belly. The few rays of silvery moonlight slipping between the thick trunks and tall branches of Godswood revealed glimpses of white intestines inside that gigantic abyss. Petyr crumpled to the ground.

He heard the sharp intake of Sansa's breath. "Wha … wha … wha," he gargled pitifully. Through the pain radiating within him, Petyr barely felt the stomp of the Hound's boot against his ribs; so much effort to keep his eyes open, everything so black and on fire within him.

"I told you before to shut up, but a mockingbird never knows when to fucking stop chattering," Clegane snarled as he bestrode Petyr's prone body.

"Oh. Oh no. Please," Sansa pleaded.

"Yes!" the mad dog growled.

Petyr's tongue flickered feebly across his lips, every part of his body shivering. 'I must … I must … say ...' Darkness hovered tight around him, swirling and tightening, nearly shutting out any trace of light until miraculously a shaft of gold broke through the veil of black and splattered across his face. 'Ha … ha … so unfair,' he thought as he started to choke and gag. The last thing to go through Lord Petyr Baelish's mockingbird of a mouth was not a wry insult, nor pretty, manipulating words, but Sandor Clegane's piss.


	16. Chapter 15

_Sean chanced a look up at the clock, the ball now about midfield on the far side of the pitch, a minute of injury time already expired. "Ouch," he grunted, watching Nick take a tumble, the longtime Blades centre mid hipped hard by the charging red jerseyed left winger. "Shite." No penalty gesture by the grey clad ref._

_The heavily muscled forward from Crakehall launched a deft centering pass, the receiving red shirt taking it on the thigh and letting it drop to his foot. A neat nudge to the left by the copper haired striker on loan to the Lions from Ashemark pushed the red-gold striped ball just past the fullback. "C'mon, Lowton!" Sean yelled at the youngest Blades defender._

_Anger quickly surged to elation, as the Blades' captain, Chris Morgan, all thirteen stone of him slid in to knock the ball away from Marbrand and upend the too smooth corker. "Yes," the ref's staff didn't wave, at least the old tosser was non-calling the penalties fairly. Sean started to back pedal, looking side to side to spot the nearest defenders._

_The ball rolled past a Casterly Rock mid, who only got a toe on it, knocking it straight toward a sprinting Andy. The Blades fullback snagged the ball barely having to break stride. A red jerseyed Lion surged up into his front and the defender niftily lined a low pass to his right, at the forward moving Quinn. The flaming haired Irishman drove the ball over the midfield line. Sean broke left and headed toward the goal on the far side of the pitch from his charging fellow Blades, hoping to catch his end of the Lion's back four ball watching._

_Lions converged near Stephen Quinn and the mid blooped one over their heads at the talented, but injury prone Darius Henderson, who didn't even let the red-gold ball hit the ground. The Blades dangerous striker swung out his foot and crossed it over the front of the box, aimed out in front of Sean._

_The Sheffield Man dug hard, feeling his cleats digging hard into the thick grass, passing around the mountain of a Lion who was the only man between him and Casterly Rock's pretty boy goal keep. He stretched out a foot and … Wham!_

_Sean saw stars. He lifted his face out of the turf, rubbing chunks of grass away from his eyes. More stars. Ser Ian, grey robes flowing in the wind ran forward, staff held high; blue, green, and red sparks shooting out to indicate a penalty. Then the wizard stopped in front of the Mountain that had leveled Sean in the act of shooting. The gnarled wood of Ser Ian's staff stopped firing stars and traced a square in the air, which immediately turned red._

"_Fuck that!" bellowed Gregor Clegane, steaming at having been sent off by the grey clad referee._

_Ser Ian serenely walked away, going to pick up the red-gold striped ball while waving at Sean to pick himself and come take a penalty kick. The Mountain moved to follow the wizard, causing both linesmen to run over and cut him off. Daragh in a green coat and Brad in a plumed bronze helmet grabbed Clegane's massive arms and walked him backward toward the Casterly Rock bench and a screaming Cersei who looked surprisingly fetching in a three piece suit._

_The lad from Sheffield slowly stood up. His head ached. Darius and Mark and Stephen and Chris and Andy all came up and slapped him on the back and shoulders, shouting words of encouragement at him. But he couldn't hear a thing between the ringing in his ears and the deafening cries of the United fans filling the King's Landing tourney grounds. "I'm good. I'm good," he muttered._

_Sean reached the penalty spot in the middle of the box. Ser Ian placed the ball in front of him. He looked down at the mostly round shaped object, ignoring how the golden boy in the net was setting up while debating whether to shoot left or right. The stern face of Tywin Lannister stared back up at him, and then the red and gold striped head's left eye winked mischievously at him. 'Oh, it's Charles,' he thought. And with that he took two quick steps forward and belted one to the left._

_Jaime Lannister dove, but the chopped off head rose on a steady, straight line, passing just above the Kingslayer's outstretched arms._

"_GOAL!"_

_The ending horn blew._

"One hundred percent Blades!" Sean yelled as he _found himself swarmed by his screaming mates. The Blades had just won the WA Cup, defeating the Casterly Rock Lions by the score of three to two. Sheffield United was the Westeros Association Challenge champions._

* * *

Not Ned moaned. His head felt liked it'd been run over by a lorry. His tongue clove to the top of a very dry mouth. Well he wasn't completely sure, but he suspected it was his mouth. Whatever it was it didn't taste good. He rolled over, flinging out an arm to steady himself, just in case the ground was moving. 'No, not moving,' he reassured himself after a minute. Something didn't feel right. Something was missing. His arm started probing around the pile of hides and blankets on which he uncomfortably rested. "Oh, that's it," he mumbled. 'No Cat', he realized.

Time passed.

He stared at the roof of the tent.

Finally he noted that sunlight illuminated the sheeting of the tent top.

"Boy, did I get gassed," he muttered. Scenes from last night started to trickle through his pounding nob. Adrenaline cut through some of his haze. "Bollocks!" he swore. "Hope I didn't bugger things. Stay on script next time Sean old son."

"Are you alive, my lord?" called that sweet not Michelle voice from somewhere outside.

"Arg," he gargled in reply.

A light laugh answered him. The tent flap moved. "I've brought tea," Cat announced.

"Bloody good," he said expectantly. The promise of a cuppa, made Sean sit up, regardless of the renewed pounding of horse hooves in his skull. When things cleared, he saw his lady wife holding a steaming mug and gazing at him with that 'look' he well remembered. Four wives will teach a bit of body language, and it appeared this look was universal to both Westeros and home; love tinged with a hint of disappointment. The impossible part for Sean was keeping the look from turning into disappointment tinged with a hint of love. 'Then, you're fuck all,' he thought.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "I take it nothing of importance has happened," he said with embarrassment.

"No, my lord," she answered with an amused glint. "Ser Olyvar told me that fires broke out in the city over night."

Fear instantly leapt to not Ned's face. "Not wildfire?" he choked out.

Cat laughed softly. "We'd have woken you through your snores for that, Ned. Just rioting we suspect. My uncle says it may be a sign that the city is turning on the Lannisters. He thinks tonight might be a good time to bribe one of the gates."

Sean let out a small sigh of relief. "Yes, it might be," he agreed. "I think Ser Jacelyn is the best wager there. I knew him a bit during the Greyjoy rebellion, you know. Though I wish he commanded other than the Mud Gate. Hard to sneak a large enough force through the wharfs unseen," he rambled.

Cat at last offered him the mug of tea.

He eyed the tea. He eyed his wife. None of his wives would ever claim apologies came easy to Sean, but he never needed any of them as desperately as he needed this one. "I'm sorry Cat," he murmured. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. 'Maybe old Ned wasn't good at apologizing either,' he thought. "Last night," he continued softly. "I spoke ill. I acted unbecoming of a lord and a knight. I wrongly disparaged honor. My honor. Our family's honor. Your honor. Forgive me."

Not Michelle's face crumpled. "Ned, no Ned," she warbled. The mug of tea dropped out of her shaking hand.

'Damn, I needed that.'

Cat launched herself into his arms.

"Ooof," he croaked, getting knocked over.

"Hang honor," she sniffled. "I was so scared, Ned. Wh … wh … when …"

"I lost my head?" he snickered.

Her beautiful blue eyes practically exploded out of her face. "Nooo. I … I …

"It's alright," Sean reassured her. "You can say it."

She clasped a hand over her mouth a moment before bursting, "Seven save me, Eddard Stark, yes, it's true."

"And?" he prodded gently, drawing her face down into the crook of his neck.

"I stopped caring about honor too. I … I … didn't even care about avenging you, Ned. Though I'd scratch Cersei's eyes out if I ever saw her, the bitch," Cat spluttered.

'Meow. Now that would be a cat fight I'd pay a bob to see!' Sean thought as he gently stroked her hair.

"But … but all I cared about was keeping Robb alive. Getting Sansa and Arya home safe, to Winterfell. I'd have sacrificed anything for the fighting and killing to stop Ned. Anything," she cried, tears dripping off her cheeks on to not Ned's skin. "I was thrilled last night, when you spoke of family and children as more important than damned honor. But I was scared too. Too scared to agree with you in front of the others. And scared for you, and what … how you've changed; you're the most honorable man I've ever known. Oh Ned, Ned, what's happened to us."

"Shhhh," Sean whispered softly in her ear, wishing for an easy answer, but not having a script at hand. The actor wracked his brain for a good quote, 'Better to die ten thousand deaths, than wound my honor? Sod off Addison! If I lose my honor I lose myself? Tosh Shakespeare. Honor is purchased by the deeds we do? Bugger that Marlowe. What would George say?' Then the answer leapt to him and a smile split his face. "Family, Duty, Honor," he murmured.

"What?" Cat asked through her sniffles, hearing her husband say the Tully motto.

"Family, Duty, Honor," not Ned repeated. "I think you might be familiar with those words. And you may have noticed, 'Family' comes first. So I don't think the Others will take you for caring about your children before your honor."

And with that he felt the tension start to ease out of his not wife.

After a few minutes of tender, silent snuggling, not Michelle chirped, "Thank you Ned."

He kissed the top of her head in response. 'How soon before I can get a cuppa,' he wondered.

"Ned?" she asked hesitantly.

'What now?' "Hhhmmmn?"

"Robb and Arya talked to me this morning. They're worried that you've changed too."

'Jesus!'

* * *

"Three of them, my lord," Olyvar announced.

Sean squinted into the distance. "I don't see a white cloak. Any guesses on who our guests might be?" 'Lenses,' he thought. His eyes weren't getting any younger; one more modern improvement to add to his already quite full mental checklist.

"Lord Rosby, I believe, my lord," Robb said.

"Ah, our consumptive friend of yesterday. This might prove interesting. I think I'll let the Kingslayer deal with him if I don't like what I hear"

And when the trio refused Galbart Glover's entreaties to pass through the siege line and enter the Northern's camp, Sean took it upon himself to make amends for his ill treatment of the last Lannister ambassadors and walked out to meet them. "Lord Gyles, a pleasant surprise to see you again. And who may I ask has the pleasure of joining you here today?"

The perpetually hacking lord mixed a perplexed look with his mandatory rattling of phlegm. Cough. Cough. "My Lord Stark, surely you remember …" Cough. "… young Lord Lancel and Lord Slynt?"

'Oh-ho. _This_ will be fun.' "Of course they are," not Ned affably agreed. "You must forgive me Lord Gyles, I fear I've grown horrible remembering which name belongs with which head since Ser Ilyn shaved off my own."

The Lord of Rosby didn't know how to respond to that little jab and simply smiled uncomfortably between hacks in response.

"Lord Slynt."

"Lord Stark," the butcher's son replied.

"I hope you found the payment for betraying me to your satisfaction," Sean teased. "Harrenhal, wasn't it?"

"Joffrey is the rightful King, there was no betrayal, only justice for a traitor," the jowly bald man declared self-righteously.

"Be sure to keep telling yourself that, Lord Slynt, when Stannis Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne," Sean laughed. "I'm sure his mercy will equal, or even exceed, that shown by Joffrey."

"Harrumph."

Not Ned turned toward the last member of the party. "Lord Lancel, such a long time since dear Robert sent you scurrying across the tourney grounds in search of a plate spreader for his armor. Tasted any good wines lately? Robert surely loved his wine, didn't he?"

The petulant teen scowled, but refrained from responding to the taunts.

"Now that I've charmed you all, tell me why have you come? I don't see my daughter or either of Lord Varys or Lord Baelish. For the Kingslayer's sake, I hope Cersei has agreed to meet my demands."

Cough. Cough. "The Queen, though she loves her brother, …"

'And doesn't she though?' he thought mockingly.

"… believes your price too steep. The Lords are trusted members of her own …" Cough. "… Small Council. She will offer you Lord Baelish and your daughter Sansa in exchange for …" Cough. "… her brother," Rosby droned between periodic interruptions.

Sean laughed. "So the Eunuch has escaped the web? How pathetic."

"Not so!" blustered Janos Slynt.

"Then you admit to having both noble Sers cooped up in the Red Keep?"

"No one is cooped anywhere, Stark," Lancel Lannister complained bitterly.

"Tsk. Tsk. How foolish of your sweet, sweet cuz, eh Lancel?" not Ned chortled. "Well, in that case, I reject Cersei's counter proposal. But I'll let you take a trinket of the Kingslayer's back to his sister as proof of how serious I am. Greatjon! Lord Roose!"

"Yes, my lord?" "Yes, my lord?"

"Bring me Ser Jaime and a sharp knife."

"My lord …" Cough. "… is this necessary?" Lord Gyles wheezed.

"Absolutely."

"He is your honorable prisoner," Janos Slynt protested.

"A knight who throws small children out of windows has no honor. Neither does one who shags his own sister. Since we're talking about the same fine fellow in both instances, I will treat him no better than the dog he is," not Ned explained. "Now since he is your cousin, Lord Lancel, I'll let you choose which finger he loses first. I'd suggest his non-sword hand." 'I wonder which one he wanks with?'

"My L … l … lord Stark," Lancel stuttered. "This is wrong. The Seven will curse your soul."

"Like they did at Baelor's Sept, when Joffrey took my head? Well the Old Gods seem to have a different plan for me, don't they? Let's see if the Seven can restore your cousin's finger. Jon, make the cur heel. Roose, stand on his hand. I wouldn't want it shaking so much I take off more than I promised."

Jaime Lannister struggled mightily against the unchained giant's grip on him, but to no avail. The Young Lion soon found himself sprawled in the mud and muck, the Greatjon sitting forcefully on his back on shoulders. Immediately, the Leech Lord placed a boot down on the Kingslayer's non sword wrist.

"A knife, Lord Roose? A flaying one, if you please?" Sean asked, his stomach turning at the possibility his bluff wouldn't be called.

A faint smile appeared on Bolton's pale lips as he pulled out a thin skinning blade.

"Cousin," the Kingslayer pleaded when not Ned accepted the sharp edged piece of metal.

Sean began to squat.

"Lord Stark!" Lancel whined.

The actor stopped and looked up at the blonde haired teen. 'Have you been end away with Cersei yet, boy?' He sighed. "Well since you refused to choose which finger, Lancel, I'll have to pick one myself. Lord Roose, would you mind stepping on the Kingslayer's sword hand? Without a thumb, his blade won't be much use to his sister."

Again the Young Lion struggled desperately, trying to tuck his right arm beneath his body, but he was no match for the Greatjon's strength.

Crunch. Roose Bolton's boot came down heavily, trapping the other hand.

"Cousin!" Jaime Lannister begged.

"Lord Stark!" both the toad Janos Slynt and the asthmatic Gyles Rosby cried.

Sean ignored their appeals and knelt to the ground, placing the thin blade at the base of the Kingslayer's thumb. He pressed lightly, breaking the skin enough for red to seep out. 'Hope I don't heave,' he prayed.

"Alright! Alright! We'll bring them both! I swear it!" Lancel screamed.

Sean looked up. Tepid disappointment showed on Bolton's face while a big shit eating grin spread across the Greatjon's. He lifted the knife. "Do you promise to remain here as a hostage against your cousin's behavior, until the exchange is made for my daughter and both Lords Varys and Baelish?"

Lancel nodded his head briskly.

"Thank you," the Kingslayer said with a shudder.

"Good. So please get off your mount, Ser." As Lancel hopped down, Sean stood up and turned to the other two lordlings. "I give you two hours. Now be off!"


	17. Chapter 16

After watching the Hacking Lord and the Butcher Pig scurry off on their horses to report back to the Bitch Queen and her nasty son, not Ned turned back to the others gathered near him. "Lord Jon, Lord Roose, kindly take _Ser_ Jaime," and the knightly rank dripped with contempt, "somewhere and clean him up. Make sure he appears as one becoming the _honorable_ station of a Kingsguard. When his dear, dear sister first lays eyes on him, we wouldn't want her to think we've mistreated the _noble_ fellow." Sean flashed a wicked grin and jerked his head towards the siege line.

"Right, you are, my Lord," the Greatjon chirped cheerfully, easing his massive arse off the the Kingslayer's back and then practically picking the prisoner up out of the mud and muck he'd been plastered into.

"I'll see to his finger wound," Bolton droned pleasantly. "A leech or two will make sure nothing festers.

Beside the actor, Lancel shivered slightly at the mention of the proposed course of treatment.

"Please do, Lord Roose. Very considerate of you to take such a personal interest," not Ned answered.

"Fuck you, Stark," the Kingslayer snarled.

"Wash his eyes too, I think he mistakes me for his sister," the actor retorted.

"Others take you, you black hearted …"

Not Ned tilted his head slightly to turn an icy gaze on the Greatjon, who responded instantly by thumping the Lannister on his skull and shutting him up.

"Now Lord Edmure, I think a drink is in order. Would you please escort our guest, Lord Lancel here, to my pavilion and see to the libations? I'll be along shortly to join you," Sean said cheerily, purposefully ignoring the spectacle of the half conscious Kingslayer being dragged off.

"Assuredly, Lord Eddard," not Ned's not goodbrother answered. "Please come, good Ser. I believe we still have an unopened bottle of Arbor gold we might avail ourselves of. If we hurry, we might drink most of it before other, less discerning palates arrive to clamor for a taste."

The pimply Lannister sprog nodded his head petulantly in agreement, clearly unhappy with all that had been occurring. Nevertheless he did march off with an alacrity that suggested a sense of relief at being parted, if only temporarily, from the Lord of Winterfell's company.

With both guests departed, the other nobles still remaining about tightened up about Sean. "So my lords, sers, were you satisfied with my performance?" the actor inquired.

The brothers Glover and Lord Cerwyn coughed nervously, not wanting to respond.

"I could not tell if you were a madman or a brilliant mummer, my lord," the Blackfish courageously answered. "Perhaps all mummers are a tad mad?"

'You have no idea,' Sean thought. "Indeed," he replied. "It was a stroke of luck Cersei sent her young cousin Lancel as a member of the embassy. He can safely be relied upon to be a slender reed."

"Your ploy last night, milord," old Ser Stevron said approvingly. "The lions, snakes, and spiders have come home to roost. The Pride Queen has too few left to trust, so she sends a boy."

Sean scratched his scruffy, itchy beard. "Yes, a boy," he agreed with an evil smile. "A boy set to inherit Casterly Rock."

"But, my lord," Rickard Karstark interjected. "I thought?"

"No, to the Wall and the Silent Sisters, if they live. But Lancel? If he survives the sack?" And the evil smile grew wider yet. "Who among you has an eligible daughter?"

Medger Cerwyn broke out first. "My Jonelle is a fair maiden."

"And as long in the tooth as she is drab," fat Wylis Manderly declared. "Now my Wylla is a proper colt, with more than enough spirit to tame that wee cub."

"Lord Greatjon isn't here," said Robb, chiming in. "T'would be amiss to not mention he has a pair of eligible daughters. Or at least I think they're still eligible."

Jason Mallister chuckled, "For Casterly Rock, I think the Greatjon would happily rid himself of an inconvenient goodson." The comment raised laughter out of all the lordlings.

"Why should only the North be allowed contenders for such a prize?" asked Ser Stevron with sly amiability.

Brynden Tully scowled. "The Freys are already in line to inherit through your brother Emmon. 'Tis marriage to Winterfell not enough? Must your father's brood also rule Casterly Rock."

The other lords of the Riverlands barked their agreement with the Blackfish's viewpoint until Jonos Bracken piped up. "My Stone Hedge has been ravaged, and me with five daughters to dower. A red filly of my house would pair well with a golden lion."

"And all Casterly Rock's gold would marry well with your treasure chest too, wouldn't it Bracken?" Tytos Blackwood snapped.

"And what of it?" Lord Jonos complained loudly.

"My Wayfarer's Rest is just as ruined as your Stone Hedge, Bracken. I've daughters too and my lands are closer to the Westerlands. I've a better claim, man," cried Karyl Vance.

"And what of Pinkmaiden?" Marq Piper demanded. "My father has no daughters to whore to the Lannisters. Who will give us gold to rebuild?"

A tumult threatened. "My Lords! Sers!" barked Sean in his best command voice. "Behave yourselves. The Lannisters will pay for their crimes against you and your smallfolk in blood and gold, fear not. Lord .. King Stannis is known as a just man. But understand this, while none of us will get as much as we each think we deserve; the true king will not give short shrift to any lord in favor of another."

The group shared dissatisfied grumblings until Maege Mormont roughly cleared her throat. "T'wouldn't be no work a'tall fer Dacey ta keep that little boy's puny cock locked up all safe like. T'lion wouldn't so much as crap wid'out t'she bear's sayin' so."

Sean snorted so hard he almost started to choke.

Rickard Karstark was the first to start outright laughing.

In moments the squabbling lords were guffawing and joking at the idea of the feisty Dacey making 'limp' Lancel a kept man, a she bear's bitch.

* * *

"Lord Edmure. Lord Lancel," Sean announced, entering the oversized tent cum headquarters and seeing the pair sipping from goblets.

The slight smile on the young lion's face quickly turned sour.

"I hope you found the vintage to your satisfaction," he said with a smirk, all the while thinking 'Now did the vessel with the pestle have the pellet with the poison or was that the flagon with the dragon?'

"Yes, Lord Stark" the callow youth murmured.

"And the conversation? At least until I arrived," the actor said matter of factly.

The dour expression turned to an outright frown, and he straightened his slender frame to the utmost. "Lord Edmure is a knightly lord," Lancel haughtily replied.

Sean nodded his head in agreement while walking over to the table on which the bottle of Arbor gold sat. "That he is. Ahhhh," he said with satisfaction, wobbling the bottle sufficiently to detect plenty of wine remained in side. As he poured himself a glass, he continued, "And a man who knows his lordly responsibility. The war will end soon enough and my goodbrother, as heir to Riverrun, must then marry soon so as to ensure the Tully name continues. Isn't that right, Edmure."

The stocky, red haired man responded coolly, "I suppose."

Sean chuckled lightly. "Don't worry, Edmure, I'm not buttock brokering … yet." He took a sip of the Arbor gold, not quite a chardonnay; definitely more full bodied than a sauvignon blanc or a pinot grigio, and certainly not a champagne or other sparkling wine. "Oh that's good. The wine that makes its way to the North is hardly better than horse piss and vinegar. Now what of your future, Lancel? When the war is over?"

The sandy haired teen's green eyes stared daggers at not Ned.

The actor sighed. "You needn't die, Lancel. We're not ogres." 'Oops, do they have ogres here?' "… or giants."

"I'll fight you to my last breath, defending my King, my family, my honor!" the youth blazed.

"Of course you will," Edmure agreed soothingly. "No one would expect other from you."

'Hmmmn, can I go good cop, bad cop?' Sean wondered. "But in the end, it will be your last breath," he said seriously.

"We'll bu … kill you when you try to storm the walls," Lancel retorted.

Sean took another sip. 'Go easy mate, your killer hangover only just took holiday.' "Yes, don't worry, we know about the wildfire Cersei has the pyromancers brewing." 'Ah, that's right, it was the chalice with the palace that held the brew that was true.'

"Why do you think we haven't attacked yet," Edmure interjected reasonably. "Lord Eddard's more worried about the gold cloaks accidentally setting King's Landing on fire than he is about our lads getting sprayed with Aery's love potion."

'Smooth, Edmure. Very smooth.' "It's just a matter of time, Lancel. We have twenty five thousand warriors against what? Five? Six thousand gold cloaks? And King Stannis will arrive within a week from Dragonstone with at least equal your numbers and a fleet to block you in," not Ned ground on with relentless logic. "The Queen's uncle Stafford is trying to train an army of ten thousand raw smallfolks in the Westerlands; but they won't be ready for months and they aren't nearly enough anyway. Face facts, the only army that can oppose us is Renly's. You do know of his alliance with the Tyrells?"

The anger slowly seeped out of the lad, replaced by nerves and angst. "How?" Ahem. "Cersei, that is the Queen … how can … is there a way?"

Not Ned shook his head grimly. "I gave her that chance before. You might remember how well that turned out for me."

"The lives of Cersei, Jaime, and Joffrey are forfeit, I'm afraid," Edmure said sadly.

"But what of Tommen and Myrcella?" Lancel whined.

"They're bastards," Sean icily responded.

"They're not!" the youth protested loudly.

Not Ned strode close to the pretty blonde trying to grow a manly mustache and whispered in his ear. "Cersei takes you to her bed. Did you really think you were her first Lannister lover."

"No!" Lancel yelled, angrily swinging a fist that struck Sean a glancing blow on his chest.

"SER!" Edmure shouted in disapproval.

Sean grabbed the brat's recalcitrant wrist, his wintry grey eyes staring down the sprog's softer green ones. He shook the wrist. "Did you?" he hissed.

Face red from hate or exertion or embarrassment, Lancel at last wheezed a distraught, soft, "No," and looked to the ground.

"So where does that leave you, Lancel?" not Ned asked in a voice so quiet, so menacing, Roose Bolton would have approved. The boy didn't answer. The actor shook his wrist again. "Where?"

"I … I dunno," came the sullen answer.

Sean let go of the sprog and stepped back with a smile. "Why it leaves you as heir to Casterly Rock. That's something to live for isn't it?"

A confused look spread over Lancel's face. "Wha .. what about the im … cousin Tyrion. His head isn't …" an angry, sullen expression quickly replaced the confusion "… isn't on the spikes next to father's and Uncle Tywin's. I thought he … that you had him as …"

"A dwarf's head is too small to fit nicely on a spike," Sean replied.

Edmure snickered.

Lancel tried to look outraged, but failed. "What will happen to Tommen and Myrcella, then" he wondered softly.

Edmure cleared his throat. "Tommen will be sent to the Wall. Myrcella will be made a Silent Sister. She'll probably go live on Dragonstone or whatever remote outpost the King wishes to exile her to."

'Unless Melisandre decides to burn her for heresy,' Sean thought snarkily.

"Lord … King Stannis … he's a hard man. How … how can you be sure he'll …"

"And he's a man who'll have won the Iron Throne thanks in the main to the two lords now sharing some rather excellent wine with you, Lord Lancel," the actor explained. "And no one would ever call Stannis Baratheon stupid. It will be easier to rule the Seven Kingdoms with the Westerlands ruled by the recognized heir of House Lannister. The war must end. Winter is coming," not Ned said solemnly.

"And all I have to do is betray my family," the boy said bitterly.

"No, we would never ask you to dishonor yourself so, Lord Lancel. All we're asking is that you don't die. If not, then Lord Edmure here already has your brother Willem as his guest in Riverrun. He'd do just as well as you I suppose."

Lancel Lannister nodded his pretty blonde head in resignation at his fate.

'Time for a bone.' "When you escort your cousin Jaime back into King's Landing, would you like to take Lord Kevan's bones with you?" Sean asked solicitously.

The youth's effeminate lips pursed in thought. "May I take Uncle Tywin's bones too?"

Not Ned shook his head in the negative.

"Then … no. I … I fear Cersei might take it as a slight."

'Smart lad,' Sean thought. 'Maybe you're not as completely stupid as I'd hoped.'


	18. Chapter 17

Horns blew from atop the city wall to announce the coming of the embassy from King Joffrey Baratheon, last of his name, and hopefully the three 'guests' to be exchanged.

"My lords," both his chubby squire Merle Waterman and his efficient aide de camp Olyvar called out at the same time.

Sean rolled his eyes at Cat. "Yes, we're not deaf," he declared loudly from inside his personal tent for the pair outside to hear.

Arya snorted in amusement.

His lady wife smiled briefly, overlaying the fears she'd just been expressing, torturing herself with really, about her daughter. "Do you … will she?" not Michelle stuttered.

He stepped in quickly and gave her a hug. "Sansa will be fine. Remember, no matter what they did to her, true beauty and honor lies within." After four ex-wives, each very fit, Sean hoped his platitude held a scintilla of truth; not that he minded in the least Cat's saucy figure and sweet naughty bits. Just pressing against her, the actor felt his knob begin to react. 'Down ya unruly git,' he urged his groin. Sean disengaged, dropping his hands down her arms until he clasped her hands. "Now shall we go?" he asked softly.

She stifled a sniffle and nodded her head.

He smiled reassuringly at her a moment and then turned towards not Maisie. "Think you can behave, Arya?"

She grinned impudently.

Sean beamed back at her, delighted by her spunk. "I know that look, child. The moment I turn my back, you'll be up to something. Where's Needle?"

"Father," she protested with false outrage.

"You'll need a guard," he said with mock severity. "Hhmmn, Merle won't have anything better to do."

"Ha!" Arya barked, clearly not impressed with not Ned's suggestion.

"Well, then it will have to be Olyvar," he declared.

A small, shy smile appeared on his not daughter's long face. "Weellllll," she drawled. "If you must."

Cat caught his eye, and lightly bobbed her head at the girl.

He shrugged noncommittally in response. 'Arya could do worse,' the actor thought. 'But let's see if he catches Sansa's fancy once she's …" Images of slender, delicate Sophie beaten, burned, and broken welled up within him, threatening his cool Ned demeanor, until he cast his mental picture of her into that deep, dark place in which he hid so much of his humanity. '… there's no rush for either of them, I suppose.'

* * *

When the three of them left the warmth of the tent for the cool air of the last day in February, much of the camp was up and stirring with nervous anticipation. Every man jack in the army knew of the eldest Stark daughter's cruel imprisonment and her exchange for the Kingslayer arranged by the 'Returned Lord Eddard, Blessed of the Old Gods.' Large groups of hardened warriors and merciless killers swirled about, like the bastardized Stag and Lion banners above the parapets of the Dragon Gate, seeking any open spot in the front ranks of the siege lines from which to watch the coming spectacle and catch a glimpse, a morbid glimpse even, of the young lady. Standing not far away from the tent entrance were Merle, holding the reins of two horses, and Olyvar, gripping those to a mount hardly bigger than a pony.

"Your horses, my lord, my lady, … my lumpy," not Ned's aide de camp announced cheerily.

"Why you …" Arya spat and charged straight at the source of the teasing.

Olyvar promptly dropped the reins and bent over to receive her charge.

"Arya!" Sean called out in irritation, now not being the time for petty, juvenile squabbling.

"Yeeehaaa!" the diminutive rascal shouted and leapt into the air.

"Oh god," the actor muttered.

And then surprisingly, miraculously, one slightly muddy child sized leather boot landed lightly on Olyvar's shoulder, upper back and instantly pushed off, propelling Arya even higher.

Thud.

'Well she stuck the landing,' Sean thought, struggling not to wince at the thought of what that would've done to his balls, while at the same time impressed with his not daughter's agile mounting of her saddle.

"Tada!" she squealed.

Cat gasped and then broke out a laugh.

Olyvar straightened back up, a smug look on his face.

Not Ned didn't say a thing. He simply escorted not Michelle to her horse and helped her mount in a significantly less dramatic fashion. His squire handed her up the reins. Sean accepted his reins from Merle, bobbing a quick acknowledging smile to the lad, and climbed atop his own horse. He turned his mount so it faced Olyvar. He chilled his eyes and put on the Ned face. Then and only then did he speak. "Ser," he ground out coldly. His aide de camp gulped anxiously. "You appear to be dirty." And Sean gestured with a gloved finger at the dirty boot print on the ermine trimmed cape over the young man's shoulder. Olyvar's brown eyes blinked in surprise. "Kindly make yourself presentable before you appear at the parley."

"Yes, my lord,"

Arya snickered.

Sean cleared his throat loudly and turned his head to stare intently at not Maisie. "And you young lady. Was that the best you could do?" he demanded scornfully, full knowing what delicate parts of his anatomy would have been crushed if he'd tried that stunt.

"I … well … father?" she stuttered, unsure how to respond

"The next time, I better see a flip in the air," and he spun a forefinger in circles to emphasize his point, "before you land in the saddle, or else its back to a month's sewing before I let you touch Needle again. Understand?"

Arya's draw dropped in surprise, but she was clever enough to nod her head in agreement.

"Good. Come my lady," he announced, and spurred his horse.

Catelyn quickly caught up to him. "Ned," she scolded, but he could hear the humor underlying the admonishment.

"With that one, it would just be a matter of time anyway, my love," he chuckled.

* * *

One of the two massive oak and iron doors in the Dragon Gate moaned eerily to announce its opening. But no fire breathing, antediluvian, George RR Martin concocted beast emerged from the disturbing din. Only six horses and six riders slowly came forth, three of slight stature and three wearing white armor beneath billowing white cloaks.

Not Ned waited beside Cat, with Arya on her other side. Next down from her came Robb, Grey Wind, his sweet gaped tooth wife Roslin, and lastly Roslin's brother Olyvar; who had followed immediately behind Sean and Cat through the camp and out past siege lines having smartly just discarded his stained cape to make himself 'presentable.' On the actor's other side his not goodbrother Edmure, a role not portrayed during the season, sat a strawberry roan that mimicked his own hair color. Just past Edmure came the 'hostage' Lancel, the Blackfish, Cersei's beloved prize, and lastly the Greatjon. No horse for Lord Umber though. The ridiculously large man stood menacingly beside not Niko, keeping a firm grip on the good looking, sister fucking, homicidal maniac.

"Is that … is that Sansa?" Cat gasped, pointing at the tiniest figure, wrapped up in a Winterfell grey hooded cloak.

Sean swallowed nervously, as his imagination tried to slip out of the dark place. 'She's not your daughter, mate,' a happy go lucky voice whispered. 'She doesn't know that, prat,' his conscience retorted.

"Lord Baelish appears ill," Olyvar interjected, using his young, sharp eyes to spy out anything amiss with the party riding deliberately on the paved stones of the Kingsroad leading out of the city. "Is he tied in to his saddle?"

"I can't imagine he's coming willingly," Edmure snickered.

"No, Ser Olyvar's right," Robb replied, agreeing with his friend, goodbrother, and for a short few weeks squire. "It's like he's … propped up or something."

Brynden cleared his throat. "Is there something we should have been told, Lord Lancel," he rumbled ominously.

All heads turned to stare at the slender reed. Lancel's face immediately turned red and sweat sprung up on his forehead.

"Boy," Sean snarled threateningly.

Grey Wind added a low, deep growl.

"Lord Lancel," Edmure cajoled in a reproachful tone.

The sandy haired teen trembled and shuddered from the condemnation pressing on him. "Heee's … heee's …"

"Out with it damn you!" barked the Blackfish.

"heee's dead … uhhnnnfffffffffffffff"

"Hahahah, oh well done, cuz!" the Kingslayer cheered as a spray of vomit heaved out of Lancel's mouth, most of it fortunately making its way to the ground, and not on to the little shit or those on either side of him.

A bevy of "ews" and various other expressions of disgust spilled out of most everyone else's mouths, until the Greatjon bellowed, "No you don't," and clutched tightly to his prisoner's reins and saddle straps, muscles bulging to keep the horse from bolting. The Kingslayer simply shrugged his shoulders at the foiled escape and kept laughing softly at his cousin's discomfort.

"Ptth, ptth" spat the sprog, trying to clear the acidic taste of bile from his mouth.

"Here," Edmure said disgustedly, handing over a wineskin to the puke breathed berk.

The boy rinsed, spat, rinsed and spat again, and finally took a healthy swallow; which was followed by a loud, odiferous belch.

Another brief chorus of "ews" erupted as the new wave of stench spread forth.

Lancel reached out a hand, proffering the wineskin back to Edmure; only to see the offer rejected by the Tully heir's look of revulsion.

"Tell us all," Brynden hissed.

"Do so! Now!" not Ned commanded, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Lancel took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard to steady his nerves, and hopefully is stomach. "Littlefinger. He … ah … sweet talked the Queen. He admitted the truth to your, uhm, accusations."

"What?!" Sean barked in surprise at Baelish's unmitigated daring.

"Yes, yes, he did, truly. And twisted his explanation all around as to show he supported the Lannisters and, uhm, protected the King .. that is Joffrey, when he was a prince; not King Robert."

'Cheeky, fucking genius bugger.' "So Cersei let Baelish go free?" not Ned asked in confusion at the Bitch Queen's monumental stupidity. "Then who killed him?"

"No, no," the lad sputtered. "She let him return to his rooms in the Holdfast, but under the guard of Captain Vylarr and Ser Arrys. There the traitor's assassins surprised them, killing them both and setting Littlefinger free. He .. ah .. then tried to kidnap the Lady Sansa."

Catelyn gasped in shock.

"And you didn't think to tell us this before!" Sean roared.

"But the Hound guessed his dastardly intent and met him with cold steel. Hahaha," Lancel chuckled timidly.

'Good dog,' the actor thought while trying to regain his composure, 'but you're still a rabid beast in need of being put down.'

"And no harm came to my sister?" Robb shouted.

"Ahhh, no, not then," the puker answered hesitantly.

'Bastards!' "And did Lord Varys resign himself to his fate … more readily?" not Ned asked menacingly

The sandy haired head shook a vigorous no.

"He appears alive," declared Olyvar, again having scanned the oncoming party.

"Tell us," not Ned exhaled icily.

"Ahhh, after the Hound returned, the Queen, after, uh, a most vigorous demonstration."

A term that made Cersei's brother laugh yet again knowing his sister's not so sweet temperament better than any other.

"… ordered the Eunuch to remain in her ballroom, surrounded by red cloaks and both Ser Boros …"

"Useless cunt," the Kingslayer suddenly spat, though it was unclear whether he meant Cersei or Blount.

"and Ser Trant."

"Did Varys' so called little birds come home to roost?" the Blackfish inquired.

Lancel's green eyes got big. "Yes, the wretches snuck in through secret entrances, firing crossbows. Ser Boros and several red cloaks fell dead under the initial onslaught, until Ser Meryn placed a blade at the Eunuch's neck and the remaining red cloaks charged the little demons."

"And Varys otherwise surived unharmed?" Edmure asked.

"Well … mostly," the sprog agreed.

* * *

At twenty yards, brief formalities were exchanged and the simple terms of the prisoner swap confirmed. As best he could tell at that distance, with a hood hanging low over Sansa's face, his not daughter's eyes appeared haunted and horrified. Littlefinger's eyes of course appeared lifeless, no attempt having been made to give the dead man a more dignified presence. The abrasions and puffiness of Varys face showed the vicious manhandling his escape attempt had earned him. Sean felt no pity for the Spider, especially since his usual pretense of amiability and sycophancy was now replaced by an aura of pure malevolence.

"You first," not Ned called.

By the red beard, Sean suspected it was Meryn Trant who smacked the rump of Baelish's sorry nag, sending it trotting over the gap between the two embassies. Olyvar in response spurred his horse forward to intercept the dead man.

"You," called out a white cloak with emotionless eyes sitting as minder on Sansa.

'Mandon Moore?' the actor thought, trying to match faces with what he remembered from George's books. "Live another day, Lord Lancel," he called out, hoping the little puker would remember his offer and not turn overly brave when the assault on city and keep finally came. Mentally Sean shrugged. There was only so much you could control. He'd done his best. Besides, they still had the too pretty shite's younger brother, the next in the line of succession, under lock and key in Riverrun and no raving Karstark's seeking a delayed vengeance; well not yet at least anyway.

Once the Kingslayer's 'cuz' reached the other side, the blonde white cloak who not Ned had met the day before, Preston Greenfield, whispered something nasty to the eunuch and jabbed the not man's horse hard to get it moving. Even with hands tied, Varys navigated his mount straight at not Ned, causing the Blackfish to move forward and cut off the evil, treacherous creature.

As the Master of Whisperers passed near Sean, the actor couldn't keep himself from saying in a light, cheerful voice, "Varys, hope you enjoy your stay, no matter how brief it turns out."

"Faceless Man," was all that the Eunuch hissed in response.

"You," demanded Mandon Moore in a voice as dead as his eyes.

Not Ned nodded his head once at the Greatjon. Upon the unchained giant releasing his reins, the Kingslayer trotted his horse in a semicircle to plant his smug face in front of not Ned. "I'll kill you Stark," he proclaimed with his typical, easy arrogance. "I've watched you, oh yes I have, north man. You're neither as fast nor as strong as when I last saw you swing a sword; and I'd have beaten you then easily enough. Alas your death won't be much challenge now, but it will still be sweet."

Edmure, not Robb, and the Greatjon howled down the Kingslayer's open challenge, while the Blackfish busy with Varys kept his mouth shut

'I'm not even the 'man' I was then,' Sean thought, fully aware his real age and movie set trained sword skills made him a pale imitation of what everyone expected from Lord Eddard Stark. Still, he felt secure enough wearing Clint and Harry's marvelous magical armor to adlib what he thought a snappy, genre relevant comeback, "What is dead may never die, Lannister. Or did you forget I've already survived your family's worst."

"Flee now little man," the Greatjon bellowed stepping forward and waving his arms as if to shoo away a pesky rat.

The Kingslayer threw a sneer at the Umber giant, but nevertheless quickly yanked on his mount's reins to turn the horse back towards King's Landing.

"Go," Mandon Moore said to his charge.

Sansa sat petrified, unmoving on her slight mare.

"Go!" the white cloak shouted. When still she didn't move, he muttered, "Stupid wolfbitch," before calling loudly, "She's all yours Stark." The Kingsguard then started backing up his horse, causing the rest of his newly composed party to begin withdrawing back to the Dragon Gate.

"Catelyn," he whispered. Then together, not Ned and his not wife urged their mounts ahead until they bookended the brutalized girl.

Sansa's breath came in short, staccato bursts as she pivoted her frightened dull blue eyes back and forth between her parents.

Cat reached out a hand and whispered, "You're safe now."

Sansa jerked back afraid the moment her mother touched her.

"It's alright, sweetling," Sean said as gently as he could muster. Truly he wanted to scream his rage. He could now clearly see that the wary child before him sprouted both new and old bruises; her left cheekbone evidently broken and grotesquely swollen. And perhaps worst of all, aside from her crushed, terrorized eyes, her face sported a patchwork of angry red, scabs and shiny scars across it. 'Oh you bastards!' he howled within.

A gloved hand reached tentatively up towards the actor's face. "Father?" a scared, tiny voice croaked.

"Yes, princess?" he answered softly.

"Is it really you?" she sobbed quietly.

"Yes."

Her hand stopped at the top of his chest. "Truly?" she whispered.

He smiled as kindly and reassuringly as he could. "Of course."

The hand pressed against the bottom of his throat. "Can I?" she gasped.

Realization struck him. 'Of course!' He immediately reached up, tugging aside his thick cloak and pulling aside the chainmail covering his neck. "See? Not even a scar. It's all better Sansa. Everything will be good again, I promise." 'Oh god I hope so.'

"I'm so sorry, father," she sobbed and suddenly tears gushed out of the broken girl. Broken by the unforgivable sins committed against her and by the unbearable memory of her own betrayal of poor, doomed, too honorable for his own good Ned.

Regardless of the girl's stupid, deadly mistake, Sean knew he'd excuse Evie, Lorna, and Molly anything; and they lived in the real world, not this fucked up place made of George's worst nightmares. He reached over and drew her stiff, frightened body into an embrace. "It's alright Sansa. There's nothing to forgive, sweetling. We're a family again. That's all that matters." Over Sansa's shoulders he saw copious tears dripping down Catelyn's face too. "I love you," he mouthed at her. 'Blimey, I really mean it,' he realized with stunned bemusement.

His auburn haired wife smiled through her pain and joy to mouth the words back at him. Then she nudged her horse in closer as well to lean in and join the hug. Her added embrace sent Sansa into further spasms of hysterical release.

After several minutes and gallons more tears, they at last separated. Not Ned looked back. Robb, Arya, Roslin, and Grey Wind still waited anxiously nearby. The others in their party having departed with the other two new 'guests' into the absolutely silent mass of Northerners and Riverlanders pressed hard against the line of stakes denoting the edge of the siege line. "Do you wish to say hello to Robb and Arya?" he whispered.

She shook her head no.

"Later, then my love," Cat responded.

Sean waved a hand at the rest of his family. They took the clue and withdrew despite their heart rendering disappointment. "Come, now sweetling. Just a short ride and you'll be safely in our tent. You can rest there."

"Safe," his wife echoed.

With a little more prodding, the girl started her mare at a walk. Sean and Cat hovered close. As they approached the sharp pointed stakes, over twenty thousand men began to clap and stomp their feet together rhythmically. Words soon joined the beat. "San – Sa. San – Sa. San – Sa. San – Sa. San – Sa! San – Sa! San – Sa! San – Sa! San – Sa!" The beat and the cries grew louder together. "San – Sa! San – Sa! SAN – SA! SAN – SA! SAN – SA! SAN – SA! SAN – SA!"

The actor felt his daughter shiver in fright at the spectacle. Part of him rued how the tumult must be upsetting the child. But the dark part within him thought of the Lannister bastards behind, and all he could think was, 'God, you're fucked!'


	19. Chapter 18

Sean stood on top of the platform his Umber banners had built to show off the Kingslayer to his adoring, twisted family. A strong salty breeze blew in from Blackwater Bay, swirling the actor's lengthening hair, which gratefully after two months was still not as long as the silly wigs and hair extensions he'd worn on set. Not Ned shoved the recalcitrant locks back in place while giving thanks for the wind easing the stench from his nose of King's Landing teeming masses and the twenty five thousand men of his own army camped in the fallow fields outside the city's walls. The strong gusts had also finally dissipated the mist and low clouds that had overhung both of that day's parleys. And as if a portent for the blood that must soon flow, the red comet now hung high and bright in the blue sky above the actor.

"On your knees, traitor," Robb snarled, putting a well-worn leather riding boot to Vary's plump arse and giving a hard shove.

The Eunuch tried to catch himself with his bound hands as he stumbled and fell down on the roughhewn planks. The not man grimaced from both the splinters driven into his fleshy palms and the act of falling jarring the injuries rightfully given him the night before by not Lena's goons. But no curse or cry of pain left not Con's tight pursed lips, controlling his fury to the very end of this, his last performance.

A round of cheers and laughter erupted from below at the Spider's misstep. Over half the army had gathered below to watch the execution; most simply for the sick enjoyment of seeing a head lopped off, no doubt. But word had quickly spread, like any crew worth its salt knowing which of the cast were shagging each other's brains out between scenes, that Varys had plotted in secret for the return of the Targaryens. And many of the lads, or at least their brothers, fathers, or uncles, had fought against the dragons in Robert's Rebellion; the death of this dickless worm, this cuckoo in the nest of dear old King Robert's council, would bring them joy.

Sean sighed. He drew the longsword at his side and checked the sharpness of the blade. For a moment he remembered using the prop Ice to cut off the head of not Will. 'What was his name?' he wondered, trying to remember the actor who's character had fled from the Others. A look of doubt or distaste or even fear about the existence of real live Others or perhaps the need for him to kill another actual human being, even a ball-less bastard like Varys, must have crossed unbidden on Sean's face.

"Father?" Robb asked hesitantly, one foot now pressed hard on the Eunuch's back.

"Hmmmn? Yes?" he asked, looking up from his hazy reflection in the shiny steel of the blade.

"Are .. you? Would you rather … I?" his not son mumbled.

'Oh,' the actor thought, realizing he wasn't projecting Ned correctly. He knew what to say and he wracked his brain for the line, but for the life of him he couldn't remember it. 'Christ, this is balls up!' He breathed deep, then suddenly he realized Robb knew the line too. "Do you remember what I told Bran, the day the deserter from the Night's Watch received his … justice?" 'Justice? Jesus! More like murder!'

Robb nodded, then smiled. "That was the day we found Grey Wind and the other pups."

"Yes. Now tell me what I said about that oathbreaker Will."

A puzzled look flit across the young man's face and he cleared his throat. "The deserter was Gared, father."

Sean blinked in surprise. 'Fuck! Was it? God damn screenwriters mucking things around for no point.' "Yeees," he drawled. "But what did I say about … taking another's life, Robb."

Not Rich cleared his throat again before proceeding. "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Robb paused, clearly moved by the words his true father had most like said to him more than once. "If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

Shivers went up and down Sean's body. Ordering others to do your killing for you was soul sickening enough in war, but even then he hadn't been able to avoid killing a man. He remembered the sick, sick sound. The meaty, brutal 'thunk' of his blade biting deep, taking another's life. Could he do it again? And in cold blood?

* * *

_The first wave of Westerlanders had been the odds and sods of the hedge knight, freerider, and sellsword type; otherwise known in modern parlance as 'acceptable losses.' They'd stormed on uphill into the teeth of the Northern line, doing their best to ignore the flights of arrows dropping in waves down on their heads until the survivors crashed into a solid wall of spears, pikes, and polearms. The most gigantic fucking man Sean had ever seen, and the moniker 'Mountain' did no justice to the ogre, had led the hopeless, but not pointless charge, from a top a goddamn Clydesdale. The refuse of Tywin Lannister's cavalry fought with spirit, but lacked the mass, even with Gregor Clegane leading them, to punch a hole through the deep ranks of not Ned's banners. Eventually unhorsed, with arrows peppering his surcoat and the chain mail sections of his armor, the Mountain at last retreated, but not before a shield wall of foot could form up just within bow range and blocks of Westerland archers form up on their flanks in the edge of the woods on either side of the wide roadway._

_From next to the tor at the peak of the slope, the actor searched in vain for a group of mountain clansman, knowing not Peter's merry band of murders had been assigned to Clegane's force in the original version of the Battle of the Green Fork. But everyone looked like a bloody savage from his vantage point. His eyes stopped rummaging about the refuse of dead bodies and shrieking injured when the sides of the attackers' shields started hammering against each other, creating a martial beat to steel their nerves enough to advance._

_For the next hour ten thousand Lannister banners on foot stabbed with swords from beneath their shields and with polearms over the top of them against over twelve thousand screaming northerners. The warriors from Houses Umber and Karstark, Houses Manderly and Flint, Houses Bolton and Hornwood ferociously hammered back at their better armored foes from behind the meager safety of the modest fortifications they'd been able to scratch out of the hard scrabbled, flinty soil of the hill's long slope. Several times riders from Lord Medger, Lord Halys, and Lord Robbet came up to not Ned by the tor, begging permission to unleash their reserves and drive the scoundrel Westerlanders away. Only Roose, that skin flaying bastard Bolton, saw, like Sean did, the block of three thousand horse gathered a half mile away under the burning tree banner of the Marbrands; waiting for the northerners to be slowly ground down by the easily replaceable Westerlands' foot. And then, even more ominously, another half mile back, at the base of the long slope, another three thousand heavy cavalry waited behind Tywin Lannister himself._

* * *

"_No! No! No!" he screamed, seeing scattered groups of northerners at points along the length of the line start to slip out from behind their modest barricade of sharpened stakes, wanting to give chase to the just rejected lancers of Houses Marbrand, Brax, Swyft, and Crakehall. "Blow the horn, gods damn it! Blow 'HOLD!'" _

"_HUUUUU-AHHHHH!" "HUUUUU-AHHHHH!" "HUUUUU-AHHHHH!" The call of the trumpeters rang._

"_Rally back! Rally back!" not Ned shouted. Standing up in his stirrups and whirling his arm dramatically in what he hoped everyone understood as 'Get back in your fucking place NOW!' Sean was exhausted already, and unlike most of his men, he hadn't even swung his sword in anger yet._

_The ground rumbled with thunder. Purple Unicorn and Manticore, Badger and Sunburst, Seashell and Silver Helm liveried archers broke out from the cover of the woods on either side of the road to again launch swarms of arrows as cover for the charge of the Old Lion's reserve, a gauntleted fist of heavily armored knights sprouting lances aimed straight at the center of not Ned's line._

_The Umber captain Bofor next to him muttered quickly. "Charge our horse, my lord."_

"_What?" Sean yelled. "They'll get rolled over!"_

"_Aye. They must," the hard man agreed. "Ta lads are too tired ta hold against a fresh charge."_

_Not Ned measured the distance the Old Lion still had to cover and tried to gauge the waning strength of his disorganized lines. 'I'm not actually Richard bloody fuckin' Sharpe,' he whined to himself. He had two hundred horse with him here and there were four groups of fifty spread out along the line. Four hundred against what? Four thousand. They'd be murdered. But maybe, maybe, they could stunt the Lannisters just enough that they wouldn't fall like a hammer blow on his weakening lines._

"_You're right, captain. Hornmen! Blow Cavalry Charge!"_

"_TAAAA-DEEEE!" "TAAAA-DEEEE!" "TAAAA-DEEEE!" "TAAAA-DEEEE!"_

_Four narrow holes started to open up in the Northern lines. Warriors yanked up or simply chopped off with their axes any stakes impeding the exit points. Others ran out to quickly drag away any intervening bodies and carcasses._

"_Say hullo to da Old Gods if ya get t'ere furst," Bofors said with a grin. Then he bellowed, "Undow Seg Bweb!" The old tongue words for 'Unchained Giant,' and spurred his horse hard, the other riders quickly flowing in behind him. _

_Sean sat petrified atop his horse. Bowels turning to water. He must charge, he must. These were his men. To remain behind the worst betrayal. His spurs lightly touched the flanks of his black and white spotted war horse. The big beast started moving forward._

"_MY LORD! MY LORD!"_

_The cry came from behind the actor. He pulled on the reins, stopping his mount. He turned his head._

"_Ser Kyle?!" he called, confused; then suddenly scared. The Condon knight had been in charge of the scouts keeping an eye on their rear. They were flanked!_

"_My Lord! Mountain clans! Hundred on garrons! They've slipped around through the woods and are coming up the back of the hill!" Ser Kyle yelled._

'_That's where you went Tyrion! Tricky sod!' Sean looked around. Near a thousand men from the Last Hearth on foot still stood around him as the final reserve. At least they held the high ground. But these men would be needed to plug the holes the Old Lion was about to tear into his army's hide._

"_You!" He pointed at some senior sergeant whose name he couldn't remember. "Stay here with that half!" and he gestured towards the warriors on his right. "Charge any Lannister shite who craps his way through our lines."_

_The grey hair nodded his understanding._

"_The rest of you lot, come with me. We've got some killing to do!" Not Ned tugged out his sword and without a seeming second thought he trotted off down the back side of the hill, leading men, his men, his banners, into a swarm of crazy arsed barbarians._

* * *

"_Lord Stark," he rasped, "the rumors t'wern't a lie. You aren't some mummer passing as the Wolf." The small man chuckled until he spasmed into coughs, hacking up a wad of blood that spewed out on to his mismatched set of armor. "Oh but the sweet irony if you were. My father, the Lion of Casterly Rock, to have been beaten by a man better suited for a farce." Agony rippled across the dwarf's jutting forehead and mismatched eyes; he grabbed at the gaping wound in his side._

"_Let me take you to a maester," Sean whispered._

"_Ha," he sniped. "Would think Robert's great friend, great ally, knows the sight of a … a … a mortal wound," Tyrion gasped. "A favor … I beg."_

_The actor nodded his consent._

_A wry smile answered him. "Perhaps three, if not a trouble, my … lord. Ah ah ah ah."_

"_Go on."_

"_There is a woman, a whore, bbbbback in my tent."_

"_Shae," not Ned said, naming her._

_The halfman's blue eye's lid twitched. "Yeeees," he said in evident surprise. "She … she treated me, if only for a while, as a 'man,' worthy of the title."_

"_If I can find her, I will see her safe," Sean promised immediately, not giving Tyrion the time to continue his plea._

"_Th-thank you. Ahahahahah," he moaned._

"_I wish to be buried with a bottle. Always … ugh … quite fond … of it."_

"_It may have to be a wineskin. _

_An unhappy look crossed his face at the possibility of a truly piss poor vintage. "If needs must. So long as it's full." He sighed and closed his lids._

"_And?" Sean prodded, a tear forming at the corner of his eyes for the doomed, maltreated, misunderstood Imp._

_Tyrion Lannister's mouth moved, tongue roiling about his mouth, small throaty sounds issuing forth until he spit another wad of dark blood out. "The mercy stroke," he begged in a whisper._

"_No," the actor answered harshly._

"_Please, my lord," the Imp pleaded. "The .. the .. the pain," he whimpered, eyes clamped tight as his body shivered beneath him._

_With a shaking hand not Ned pulled out his dagger. He stared at not Peter. Sean swallowed heavily and thrust the cruel steel into the soft flesh of Tyrion's neck._

* * *

"Do you have any last words, Varys?" not Ned asked, feeling his stomach churn and pitch about as he spoke the traditional words to the condemned.

From his prostrate position, the Spider turned his neck as best he could, lifting hate filled eyes up at the actor, yet still saying nothing.

Sean took a few practice swipes with the longsword, making his arm limber; building his courage. He cleared his throat, a tactic occurring to him. "I've only ever done this with Ice. I can't guarantee the first … or second … or third cut will be clean." Sean rubbed his perpetual stubble thoughtfully. "Were you to reveal one of your secret ways into the city and the Red Keep, I would wait until Ice was returned to me, before …" He let the unfinished statement hang in the air.

The Eunuch only smiled contemptuously in response. "I serve the realm," he whispered with arrogance; goading not Ned on.

Not Ned's blood suddenly boiled. Life meant nothing to this fascist shite. Not his own, not his 'little birds', not any of the thousands dead in wars he'd helped to start; certainly not Sean's. And now the bastard was egging Sean on to become a killer, as bad as all the rest.

"Smile all you want, stupid sod. Your evil, little games are done. The Old Gods showed me your plans. They are undone," the actor hissed.

Varys eyes narrowed slightly.

"Oh yes, your precious Viserys lies dead on the Dothraki sea, crowned beneath a bucket of molten gold by Khal Drogo."

Varys blinked. He giggled. "Tell me what I don't know already, Lord Stark," he at last spoke in his usual simpering tone.

The tittering stopped as Robb pressed down with his boot.

Sean's hand reached into the sky. "Do you see that? The red comet? Do you know where that omen came from?!"

The Eunuch said nothing. He just breathed heavier from the pressure of Robb's boot on his back.

Not Ned knelt down on one knee, very close to the Spider's bruised and abraded face. "I'll tell you then," he whispered softly in the other's ear. "It's your friend Illyrio's wedding present to young Daenerys, the dragon eggs. They hatched. The dragon's tail was born when the last Targaryen birthed them in the flames of Khal Drogo's death pyre."

Something shifted in the Eunuch's eyes. Surprise? Greed? Pride? Not Ned couldn't tell.

"Oh, don't worry," he hissed. "You and your fat friend from Pentos have already cut your cocks off … again. The dragons never enter the Game of Thrones. See, you're stupidly sending old Ser Barristan to Daenerys. He'll join her in Qarth, saving her life. The Old Gods see very far, Varys; very far indeed. And they've shown me your foolish error. You haven't just given the young queen a new Lord Commander for her Queensguard. No, you've given Daenerys a knight who will teach her the true meaning of honor and duty. She sets Slaver's Bay free, and never returns to Westeros." 'I hope.' "Never," he murmured with quiet satisfaction.

Not Ned's pronouncements didn't appear to bother the Eunuch in the least, agitating the actor even further. The Spider's hate filled eyes moved about for several seconds, as if calculating the angles on a billiard's shot. A look of satisfaction and acceptance spread across his pudgy face. He stretched out his neck willingly.

Sean refrained from punching the infuriating gobshite and stood up, adjusting his grip on 'justice.'

Varys raised an eye as not Ned raised his blade high. Seeing the sword begin to swing down, the Eunuch whispered, "The young Griff."

Thunk.

Steel sank into the floor of the platform.

Blood burst in brilliant jets of red from severed carotid arteries.

A bald head skittered and then rolled off the edge, falling twenty feet down to the mud and trampled grain stalks below.

"HUZZAH!" roared the audience below, cheering their appreciation of his single stroke that concluded the current episode of A Game of Thrones.

Sean swallowed hard on the bitter bile of the last bit of lost innocence that gurgled up into his mouth.


	20. Chapter 19 - Arya (II)

**Arya (II)**

The tourney sword waved lazily in front of Arya's face. She ignored it, not letting it distract her as she kept circling to the right, trying to get around Shadd's shield. Both she and her opponent knew her to be too swift for the dulled blade to be much of a threat until she initiated … 'faster, faster, faster,' she told herself, remembering Jaqen's admonitions. Her mouth curled revealing a fierce grin, 'Why am I thinking of him?' she asked, he wasn't her true teacher. 'Boy, girl, you are a sword, that is all,' she thought right before launching an attack to take out her hidden frustrations.

Ting.

"Ung," her father's guardsman grunted and then smiled nervously, just having jerked his shield over in time to block the little wolf's deadly sharp Needle. Automatically he chopped at the weasel quick girl's unguarded left side. He blinked in surprise as the slender girl stepped back just enough for his strike to barely slide by her chest and then watched her whirl in place to the right, turning herself completely around.

Arya lunged, aiming a stab straight at Shadd's sword elbow. The unhappiness within her smiled cruelly seeing his eyes widen in shock at her move.

Clang.

"Hells," she cursed softly, angry at just having missed because the guardsman had desperately pulled his sword back across his body in time to luckily catch Needle's corked point on the crossguard, deflecting it.

Shadd centered himself behind his shield, keeping it tilted just so in order to not lose sight of his diminutive opponent, and then took a stomping foot forward as drill required against an unshielded foe; even if the foe was a girl and the daughter of his liege lord. He stomped again and again, driving the elusive weasel back. She turned, he followed. She waggled her skinny blade in a taunt; he drove forward behind his shield in response.

Arya's rising temper threatened to flare; the guardsman's big shield negated her advantage in speed when he bothered to use it smartly, which he was. 'Curse him, no fair,' she thought. Then the memory of that familiar accented voice filled her head, _"No fair?" The tongue clicked disapprovingly. "Worry about no fair with a bigger, stronger foe only gets sightless fool killed quicker."_ She missed Syrio.

"And how is the Lady Sansa today," Shadd asked innocently enough, merely hoping to distract her a moment so he could strike.

"Ahhgggg!" the girl roared in response, her long simmering emotions suddenly erupting at the mention of _HER_!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Now Shadd began rapidly retreating behind his shield as his liege lord's slight daughter took a two handed grip on her narrow blade, as if the slender steel was a greatsword, and crazily began chopping away at him.

Bang!

But for _HER_ lies, Nymeria would not be lost! 'Not fair!'

Bang!

But for HER foolish puppy love of _HIM_, Fat Tom would be alive! 'Not fair!'

Bang!

And Des!

And Cayn!

And Hullen!

And Porther!

And Lord Varly!

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

With every blow another name, another friend, gone. _SHE_'d killed Syrio with _HER_ treachery. 'Not fair!'

Bang!

SHE'd even let them kill father! 'Not fair!'

Bang!

And now father's army loved _HER_ more. _HER_, the traitor. _HER_, _HER_, _HER_! 'Not fair! Not fair! Not fair!' She felt her arms growing heavy with the effort of channeling the rage from every sinew and muscle in her body into each blow.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Her arms started to droop from exhaustion.

"Arya?" Shadd asked hesitantly, noticing her at last slowing down.

"Not fair!" she screamed, the breath rushing out of her; moist drops forming in her eyes.

Bang! bang! bang. ting.

Pants started to come heavily and she soon found she could no longer raise her leaden arms to protest the injustice.

The shield lowered warily. Concerned eyes stared at her in confusion. "Arya Underfoot?" he asked softly with evident concern.

"Go away!" she cried, and tears poured down her face. "Everyone else has!" Needle fell from her trembling hands to the earth. Off she scampered, as scared and upset as she'd been 'that' day, the day when the world turned its back on her, leaving her all alone to fend for her own survival.

* * *

_Arya barely talked to Sansa that first day other than to say "love you" and hug her briefly, since her battered, bruised, and be scarred sister had broken down in a river of tears upon stepping into the privacy of the family pavilion where Arya and Roslin had waited together. And from that point on Sansa hadn't stopped blubbering and begging for forgiveness until Mother had finally given her dream wine so she'd drift off to a hopefully restorative sleep. Staring at the lumps and scabs and welts festooning her sibling's formerly perfect face had forced Arya to relive her own experiences from 'that' awful day filled with white, red, and gold cloaks; and then the many horrible, lonely days and weeks afterward. At least with Needle to defend herself with, Arya had never let anyone ever get a second chance to try and beat her. Though she admitted that Yoren would have tried and succeeded too if she hadn't improved her behavior, which with a very sore arse she grudgingly had done. The ugly, smelly, foul mouthed black brother's discovery of her in front of the Sept of Baelor had likely saved her life, she knew; Fleabottom being no place for a lone ten year old girl, even one armed with a Needle. Surprisingly she found she missed the old man and Gendry and Hot Pie and Lommy and some of the others, not that she'd ever trade them for her family._

_As the rest of the pack of Stark and Tully kin talked quietly of revenge over the uneasily slumbering Sansa, Arya wondered how long it would take her sister to return to her old self. She frowned, fearing it possible that the torture might've changed Sansa somehow similar to what the Old Gods' magic had done to father. She didn't like that idea. Then she snorted in amusement, realizing that with how much the two of them had fought before, maybe a changed Sansa wasn't such a bad thing._

* * *

Arya staggered as she ran, short breaths catching in her throat. She dodged as best she could around men at arms, camp followers, and the odd merchant; occasionally cutting between tents where she could pause to try and gather herself, let some life seep back into her legs and arms. Moving again, she cut around a corner and suddenly spied the giant direwolf banner floating about the family pavilion. "No," she gasped, refusing to seek refuge there, "not near HER." But the shock ended her blind, thoughtless flight from the anger driving her, her mind showed her the path to a known safe haven. One where she'd spent a few nights since rejoining her pack, getting to know its newest member. Off she staggered again, arms still dangling near lifeless by her side.

"Lady Arya," the guardsman in familiar grey said with a smile of recognition.

"Is the Lady Roslin in, Jub?" she asked breathlessly.

The man raised an eyebrow suspiciously, taking in the breathless girl's disheveled state. "In some trouble wee lady?"

"Jub!" she barked in frustration.

The guard winked and clomped his spear butt down on the piece of wood beneath it. "The Lady Arya to see milady," he called loudly.

Thirty seconds later a maid lifted the flap to Robb and Roslin's tent.

Arya darted in to find her goodsister sitting wrapped in a shawl next to a brazier as she stitched a patch on a pair of Robb's riding pants.

A cheery smile split Roslin's rosy lips revealing the somehow endearing little gap in her teeth. "Arya," she said happily.

"Roslin," she acknowledged, stepping towards the brazier for the sweat she'd built up while running had begun to chill her in the cool autumn air. She kept her head down as she painfully raised her hands so they could rest over the pleasant heat.

"What's wrong dear?" her goodsister asked, quickly clueing into Arya's body language.

"I just had to get away," she stated sourly.

"From who, sweetling?"

"Family," she harrumphed.

Roslin laughed lightly and said in an amused tone, "Am I not family too?"

"Yesssss, but you're different. They're impossible. And Sansa?! Ohhhhhh. She's ….. what she did! I just want to scream! Ahhgggg!" Arya yelled, releasing some of her stress.

"Oh," Roslin answered, her natural good humor rapidly draining away. "I see." She frowned. "Debray," she called, getting her maid's attention. "Kindly check with the washer-women if my lord husband's garments are ready."

The unattractive teen who'd accompanied her even younger mistress the long, long way from the Twins to Riverrun to outside the walls of King's Landing curtseyed and replied, "Right away, milady."

The flap slid back once Debray exited.

"You know what she did!" Arya accused openly, now freer to unburden herself.

Roslin nodded her head in agreement, but not saying anything in response yet.

"I know she's family," the ten year old raged, "But what she did!" Tears returned to Arya's grey eyes.

"Come sit with me sweetling," Roslin commanded, and she edged over as much as she could on the narrow backed bench to make room.

Arya plopped down beside her and immediately threw her head onto the older girl's chest, immediately being rewarded with an embrace. "Not fair, not fair, not fair," she wept.

"I thought that often myself growing up in the Twins," she whispered into the younger girl's dirty, messy brown hair. "My father hardly knew my name; daughters mean little to Walder Frey other than causing him resentment for the silver he knows he'll have to pay out one day in dowries. My sisters, well those not named Walda, and I would get into fights over the names our father bestowed on us when he bothered to speak directly to a mere daughter. We fought over which of us was 'worthless cunt,' 'your mother was a whore,' 'stupid slut,' and 'you, too ugly to marry.' Morya gave me a fat lip once for daring to lay steal 'stupid slut' from her. But I got my revenge." Roslin gave Arya a gentle squeeze. "I rubbed hot pepper juice into her small clothes, earning her the name 'bitch in heat'."

Mucus spilled out of Arya's runny nose on to Roslin's dress as she snickered.

"My father has twenty nine true born children and who knows how many base born. My eldest brother, Stevron, is old enough to be my grandfather and my youngest sister, Shirei, is only seven. With so many siblings and nieces and grandnephews what does it matter if I stay angry at one or even ten of them? Hhhmmmn? So trust me little one, with all the gossip, alliance making, plotting, backbiting, and alliance breaking I grew up with, each one of us doing all we could to stay in my father's uncertain good graces, there are worse places to be than a part of your family, and having Sansa as a sister."

"But she …"

"Is your only sister, ever. And she loves you. She knows what she did. Why do you think she's so miserable and cries all day?"

"She loved Joffrey more!" Arya replied hotly.

Roslin sighed. "And for the rest of her life, everyone who looks at her face will see how he returned her love."

"But they'll never see her betrayal, the stupid slut," the young girl hissed.

* * *

_Who knew that killing a man took so long. Well, father did want to make a show of it. And with mother's old treacherous childhood friend Petyr already dead, he'd planned to kidnap Sansa(!), that left only the creepy old bald eunuch to meet Stark justice. Father wasn't so very different from before that he wouldn't attend to this task as he had when necessary back in and around Winterfell. But the eunuch was taking a long time and the wait was starting to bore Arya. Though she supposed if she were being led to her death, she wouldn't cooperate much either by climbing willingly up the ladder to where the deed would be performed. She shivered and huddled inside her cloak for warmth as a cold wind blew through the strangely excited crowd of gathered Northerners and Riverlanders amongst which she stood._

_From the chatter she overheard, they seemed pleased to jape about seeing a not quite a man at last lose his other head. Arya knew what they meant but didn't see what was so funny about it. Winterfell had many gelded sheep, hogs, goats, and cattle that were eventually slain for their meat. But today a cut man would die, an evil creature certainly; still, a spark of life the Old Gods valued more than a lowly animal, surely. She'd only once before, and that on that 'other' day, attended an execution. 'Will I have the bravery to watch?' she wondered. Syrio had always commanded her to "Look with your eyes." But she remembered with vast relief how Yoren had unexpectedly snatched her of the crowd to press her tight against his chest and snarled in that thick voice of his, "Don't look;" so that all she knew of father's death was the crowd's sigh as the foul deed was done._

'_How will these men react?' she thought, knowing they hadn't a clue who the dead fat King's Master of Whisperers was. She barely remembered spying him more than a few times in his flowing gowns as he passed through the outer yard or the middle bailey with his mincing stride, usually deep in conversation with someone more interesting. She guessed they'd care for the same reason she did, simply because father, the honorable Lord of Winterfell, said he was a traitor. That was good enough for her even if he had publicly proclaiming his own treason that horrid 'other' day. Soon enough she began speculating on who else from the Red Keep deserved a traitor's death and a list quickly developed in her mind: Joffrey for Nymeria's loss, Sansa's face, Mother's hands, and Lady's death; the evil looking Hound for she still remembered her friend Micah; Ser Meryn for Syrio; Ser Ilyn for father; and, both the Kingslayer and the Queen for causing Bran's fall as father had explained. She missed Bran and Rickon and Jon and …_

_Thunk._

_Arya watched in surprise as the bald head of the Eunuch fell off the platform to much cheering from the army. She grimaced and barely noticed that many even shouted "Sansa", as if the eunuch and not Joffrey and his white cloaks was responsible for that. Then, staring at the head and open lifeless eyes resting in the muck, she began to bit her lip in worry that she'd see father and his head in her sleep. "Praise you Old Gods for returning him," she murmured in the tumult about her. 'And make him whole again, truly whole," she added in silent prayer to the nameless things of earth, wood, and sky._

* * *

Though half her blood was Tully, Arya knew herself to be a Stark of the North and the cool autumn night air bothered her little. She sat before the fire, bowl of stew in hand, ensconced in a cloak, safely surrounded by her father's sworn men. They all knew she was present sharing the heat of the flames, warmth of the food, and friendliness of their stories, songs, and jokes with them; but paid her little real heed as she was Arya Underfoot after all, her presence at any given time simply expected. And no need to tell these Northerners, these guards of Winterfell, that winter was coming. With just a hint of wispy vapor visible as they spoke, talk invariably turned to the at last changing seasons. Some made bets on how harsh the winter would turn. Others wondered aloud whether the war would end soon enough they'd make it home before the snows made it nigh impossible to travel. A few japed they wouldn't mind staying to see how easy a Southerner's soft winter would lay upon the land, especially with a fine southern lass to share a blanket with.

Arya laughed along with the rest, but truth be told the long summer had lasted so long she barely held any memories of when last the snow rose as tall as warhorses, icicles swept from the eaves of the Great Hall all the way to the ground, and winter town choked up with more people than she dreamed could ever live in one place; at least until father first brought her here, to this dreadful place. The hot spring water running through the walls of Winterfell kept her home, which she missed mightily, warm during even the harshest of late Summer snows. She supposed after eight thousand years of use, Brandon the Builder must've known a thing or two in building Winterfell and that her home would survive the coming storm of ice and sleet and snow. Suddenly her body craved to dive into the heated pools of the Godswood, below the walls of the Guest House. She couldn't remember her last real bath, so much dirt and filth still imbedded in her skin to scrape off.

"What?" she whispered, realizing the conversation had turned. 'No, not HER,' she begged.

"Do ya think the Lord'll give a reward fer any of us that kills one of them white cloaks that done hurt the Lady Sansa?"

"His lordship's always been a generous one."

"He keeps you under his roof, don't he?"

"Har, har."

"There's seven of dem. Could be seven holdfasts he'll hand out."

"Keep dreaming Lorry. You're lucky 'tis stew tonight; your knife cuts more' a you than a mutton chop."

Laughter.

"They say the Hound is one of them now, but he never struck the Lady."

"Him? I remember that mean, ugly bastard. He were an arrogant arse at Winterfell bein' nursemaid to the false King as a prince."

"Yeah, insulting Lord Robb and Ser Rodrick."

"I won't hold my sword back none against him. He might not'a hurt the Lady Sansa, but he probably helped chop down Desmond and Wyl and d'others."

"Cayn."

"Dorren."

"Jonnel."

"Errold."

"To all our murdered grey brothers."

"To our brothers!" "To our brothers!" "To our brothers!" "To our brothers!"

Arya sniffled and rubbed her nose. 'If only they knew.'

"Me, I'll be happy to stick that fat white coat Ser Blount."

"Slow and more interested in eatin' than fightin'; I'd go as high as two to one on that fight ... on him."

Hoots.

"Funny cock. That's the same odds I'd give you against the false King."

"No one kills the false King," a harsh voice cut in. "No one. He's for his lordship's justice. And he'll see a cleaner death than what he deserves. What he did to her lovely face." The man spat.

She couldn't take hearing any more. Slowly Arya crept backwards into the shadows, underfoot and invisible to the men around her who did not see with their eyes. Who when they looked at her sister wrongly saw only tragedy and not treachery.

* * *

"_Where's Jeyne?" Sansa moaned unexpectedly._

_For the most part her sister had been sleeping a lot the last two days thanks to the judicious draughts of dream wine Mother had plied her with whenever she began to turn hysterical. But at the moment Mother wasn't in the tent, Father needed her council on dealing with some new pointless dispute between Blackwoods and Bracken. The temporary care of Sansa had been left with her and her goodsister. "In the cit …" she started to respond._

"_Safe," Roslin cut in._

_Sansa's still beautiful blue eyes wobbled and tried to focus. "Jeyne?" she asked confusedly._

"_No sweetling, I'm Roslin, your goodsister."_

"_Oh Jeyne, I'm so sorry," Sansa said with a groan, reaching out to clutch at the young woman's hands. "Did they beat you too?"_

_Roslin's delicate nostrils flared and she frowned. "Everything will be fine, Sansa. Go back to sleep."_

_Arya laid her own hand on her sister's arm. "Go back to sleep, Sansa. You'll feel better in the morning."_

_The battered girl nodded slowly, her face utter despair. "Did they hurt you, Arya?" she whispered._

_Arya smiled proudly, "No, I escaped."_

_Sansa's eyelids fluttered. "So glad," she murmured. "Was worried. Never saw you. They killed Septa Mordane. Thought … killed you, too. But Joff never … never showed me your head. I hoped. Should. Should never have told the Queen. All my fault. Never told. Never …"_

"_Never told what? Never told what?!"_

_But Sansa didn't stir, she was fast asleep again._

_Arya yanked her hand off her sister as if she'd been burned. Then the hand curled into a fist_

_Roslin grapped her. "Don't" she whispered._

"_What did she say? What!?"_

_Roslin stayed silent._

_Arya looked over at her goodsister and saw her blushing, eyes shifting guiltily. "You know!" she accused._

_Roslin bit her lip and nodded slowly._

"_Tell me!" she demanded._

_The newest member of the pack revealed what little she knew. Sansa had gone against the pack and fled to the Queen, revealing things, all because of her love of the Prince. More Roslin did not exactly know._

_But deep in her heart, Arya knew. She shook off her good sister, snatched up Needle, and stormed out of the tent. "Winter is coming!" she snarled to herself._

* * *

The pale moon still shared the sky with the Red Comet when Uncle Brynden came back from his regular, secretive nightly duties, awakening Arya from her troubled sleep. With all the amount of ridiculous, noisy rutting going on between Mother and Father, as well as Robb and Roslin, and whoever Uncle Edmure was entertaining any given night, she'd found the Blackfish's tent, despite the usual later hour of his return, the quietest place she was allowed to sleep. If he minded her intrusion on his privacy, he never once said anything about it. He always smiled happily up at her from within his cocoon of blankets when she brought him his morning tea.

She didn't turn over upon his arrival or give any visible indication he'd awoken her. The last thing she wanted was to say hello to anyone, let alone have a chat, even with him. Her emotions were still too raw, too hurt. As she waited for his breathing to even out and be replaced with a soft snore, she stewed inside, bitter beyond words at those who had hurt her family and friends; torn in particular about one, for she now both loathed and loved her.

Arya, at last satisfied that her Uncle slept, began to whisper her list, "Joffrey, the Hound, Ser Meryn, Ser Ilyn, the Kingslayer, the Queen." Then she hesitated a very long time. Finally she added one last name, "Sansa."


	21. Chapter 20

The oars dipped at a slow, rhythmic pace through the murky waters of the Blackwater Rush, just enough to keep the small galley oriented in the middle of the river as the current and outgoing tide did most of the work propelling the craft through the night. No lanterns hung at the stern or bow, with the half moon and the red comet being the only sources of light illuminating the boat, and the forty men within it, between breaks in the clouds. The rowlocks were wrapped in scraps of canvas to muffle any squeaks from the oars. To be discovered on this furtive trip, which had started three miles above King's Landing, past the Tourney Grounds, likely meant a fusillade from the catapults and trebuchets atop the portions of the city wall facing the Rush. And while darkness and the ill training of most of the gold cloaks manning the artillery reduced the odds of being struck to near nothing, Sean was nevertheless a strong proponent of the maxim 'better safe than sorry' with anything to do with fucked up Westeros. So when an eerie screech suddenly arose from the south bank of the river, it quickly drew the actor's jumpy attention.

"Two toms fighting over a queen in heat," the Blackfish whispered unconcernedly.

Not Ned's toothy grin shown through the gloom, as his gooduncle's pronouncement reminded the actor of a Chelsea bar he'd once accidentally walked into. When his nerves settled a bit, he asked softly, "Are you certain our scouts have swept the far shore of Lannister spies?"

Brynden Tully released a low pitched but stinging retort. "Certain? No. Not unless you'd like Lord Bolton to put a few of the smallfolks over there under his knife."

The contempt the old knight put in his voice was telling to the actor; Not Ned and his honor were still on probation as far as the wily, but duty bound ebony trout was concerned. Besides, the less he had to rely on that untrustworthy fuck head Roose the better; the last thing his 'modern' sensibilities wanted was to unleash a terror of torture on this pitiful world. Not that he'd have an easy time convincing Ser Brynden of that thanks to how the Green Fork ended and more recently his less than charitable public manhandling of not Aidan.

"But I've a hundred men on the far shore keeping their eyes and ears open for any signal betraying us," the knight continued. "And it's not as if there are any boats left over there if you're worried we might be attacked that way."

The Blackfish has taken Sean's command from six days earlier; "_Find a few more likely trout and scout out along the edges of the Blackwater, both the Bay and the Rush. The Targaryens built secret tunnels and entrances to the Red Keep. Kindly discover one, Ser," _and broadly interpreted it to include securing the opposite side of the Blackwater Rush as well. In fact the river galley they were riding in tonight had been one of many confiscated in that very action. His gooduncle had a brain to go along with his balls of steel, and knew how to take initiative.

Unfortunately, the main task assigned the Blackfish had not gone so swimmingly. A night, a day, and most of a night after the Eunuch's unlamented, and duly deserved (couldn't someone else have carried out the sentence?), demise, still no secret entrances into King's Landing had been discovered. Not that Sean would rub salt into the wound of that failure and further strain his presently cool relationship with Ser Brynden. Luckily, however, fate brought a possible turncoat to not Ned, and this one driven not by gold, but by honor, or so he hoped based on the books. The truth would be discovered soon enough at the Mud Gate.

In the meantime, to keep his nerves steady, the usually taciturn Sean unexpectedly found a need to converse. As Lord of Winterfell, if he wasn't talking shop with one of his banners or household members, his available circle for just 'chatting' was exceedingly small. Sitting in a boat in the dark trying to be secretive reduced it further, to one in fact. "I hope Arya hasn't been proving a bother for you at night?"

"Nay," Brynden replied quietly. "I hear word of the mischief she makes during the day, but she's a docile, sleeping child by the time I make my bed most nights. And how is Sansa sleeping?"

"Not well," Sean grunted softly. "She clings to Cat when awake and breaks into tears most times she sees me." Much like Arya the actor had been spending a lot of time outside of the Stark House tent lately; there was only so much Stark family drama he could handle. What did he know of coping with a real life brutalized pre-teen, he was an actor, not a social worker. And to put the crowning cherry on top of his fecal sundae, even with his not daughter heavily doped at night with dream wine, not Michelle's enthusiasms towards him had waned significantly. Not that he was all that surprise, this was the woman after all who in the books had spent three weeks, night and day, by her fallen son's side. She'd do the same for him he didn't doubt, not that he intended to ever find out. "Damn them," he whispered harshly.

"The Lannister bastard and the so called honorable knights of his Kingsguard have much to answer for," Brynden stated with deadly earnest.

Sean realized it felt good, if only for a moment, to have the Blackfish's knightly scorn pass off of not Ned and on to others.

* * *

"Ship oars," the steersman called lightly from beside the rudder.

The locks barely groaned or creaked as the twenty rowers slipped their sculls out and, with only a few loud seeming clunks in the still night, laid their dripping paddles down on the deck. As the galley glided the last few dozen yards amongst the quays jutting out from the burned out remains of the Fishmarket, a handful of men gathered at the bow, preparing to dock the boat.

"Now," hissed the self-designated boson, a graying man whose only job throughout the length of the journey seemed to be periodically offering unsolicited suggestions on proper river craft. 'Actors aren't the only ones full of themselves,' Sean noted. Then three at the bow reached up and grabbed on to the stones of the wharf's retaining wall, absorbing the force of the initial impact. The padding on the galley's starboard side started to bump and scrap not too noisily across the rocks and the ten starboard rowers joined in with strong, callused hands to further cushion the boat's coupling with land. Almost now stopped, two others from the bow, holding ropes, jumped the four feet up to the top of the stone wall, the tide being more in than out, and quickly secured the galley to the nearest iron cleats sunk into the dock's granite.

The hemp cords twanged briefly as they grew taut, completing the stop of the boat's forward momentum. Now at rest, the guards in the middle of the galley propped a wide boarding ladder against the pier and Brynden gestured at the rest of the night's 'muscle' to move off. As each one scuttled out on top the wharf, they seemed to head out in a slightly different direction than the previous fellow; spreading out to ensure no gold cloaks waited in ambush. In less than a minute, an indistinct bird called out. Brynden twirled a finger and half the oarsman left the boat too, warily fingering the knives and cudgels at their side. None of the men, either scouting on land or still on the galley, wore anything other than dark leather armor and black clothing in order to stay invisible, quiet, and stealthy.

"My Lord?" a voice finally whispered after ten near silent minutes, taking Sean by surprise. The figure crouched low on the pier, a barely visible shadow of gray in the blackness.

"Yes?" he answered.

"No sign of treachery. The agreed signal shines. Follow me."

The actor and the Blackfish crept up the ladder and started following the crafty, silent guard. Sean wove between burned out remains of shacks, the detritus from the ruined harbor front, and the odd bone protruding from the muck; all of it smelling like putrid fish and smoke. A hundred yards from the Mud Gate, the trio stopped in a shallow, rubble filled pit fronted by a few heavily charred, fire eaten beams; all that remained of some hapless merchant's stand and livelihood. He spied man sized dark lumps crouched about here and there; hopefully his men keeping a watchful eye on things.

"Look," the Blackfish grunted, pointing through the dark at the left hand side of the gatehouse. Two candles flickered in a single loophole on a level just below the battlement, the faint welcome for an offer of treachery. Sean much preferred the idea of the Lannisters getting stabbed in the back than team not Ned.

Their guide warbled out some bird's agitated, ugly cry.

A few similar sounding calls rose up around them. One even sounded more real, more avian, to Sean's ear than the others.

Surprise or interest must have shown enough on his face, even in the dark, for the Blackfish to comment, "Carrion vultures, squabbling over ripe meat. Something not uncommon to find during a siege."

One of the two candles went out.

Another round of bird cries squawked out after a minute's exceedingly long wait.

The second light immediately fizzled out.

"Shhh!" someone called.

A low swish buzzed at the edge of not Ned's hearing, followed by a soft thud.

"Someone comes," a voice grunted.

Sean couldn't see a thing until the clouds parted enough and he spotted in the night's shadows a figure climbing a tad clumsily down from the top of the Mud Gate on some sort of a rope ladder.

"Stay here," Ser Brynden ordered, and then he and their guide darted sneakily out, trying to use what cover they could, to reach the base of the flimsy ladder. At last they returned with a gold cloak captain. The reason for his difficulty on the rope now made evident by his readily apparent iron forged right hand.

The man stepped close enough to make Sean uneasy, but the tall man with eyes so deep set the actor could barely see them, made no untoward moves. He simply stared long and hard through the shadows at not Ned's face and neck, an act Sean immediately recognized, and had long since privately dubbed, as 'Searching for the Stigmata of Lord Eddard.' At last satisfied, the medieval cop remembered himself and addressed not Ned, "My Lord Stark."

'Ah, acceptance. They almost always do, praise be an entire world's uncompromising faith in its pantheon of mysterious and powerful gods.' "Ser Bywater. I don't remember meeting you from my brief time here as Hand. But you were on Pyke, weren't you?" Sean began.

"My lord remembers," the commander of the Mud Gate murmured politely, his oversized, square set jaw bobbing slightly with every syllable.

Sean shook his head no. "Not much, I fear. Many of my memories left me when Ser Ilyn shaved my neck so close," he said with a wry grin. 'Time to play up mystic, reincarnated Ned,' he thought. "From the storming of Pyke I recall towers as little islands leading out into the sea, how hard the ironborn fought, and Greyjoy's black kraken throne; but I couldn't tell you what the castle smelled like. Salt … and blood I imagine." He sighed softly, as if saddened. "Robert knighted you for your bravery there. And here I am, before you, seeking safe passage into my friend's city. Will you grant it?" 'Damn, I cut to the chase too fast,' he scolded himself.

The knight had listened carefully to not Ned's little speech; his ironhand twitching a bit, perhaps subconsciously at the mention of Pyke. Still, he took a long time before finally responding. "The Lions are little loved by the smallfolk. Would the wolves rule be any kinder?"

"I can guarantee that food will flow again into the city. And that the men of the North and the Riverlands will stay disciplined and not pillage or rape. But neither Winterfell nor Riverrun seek to sit upon the Iron Throne," Sean answered.

"That is as rumor has it in the city," Ser Jacelyn confirmed. "Then who?"

"King Stannis," the Blackfish replied. "Robert's eldest brother and true heir."

The gold cloak captain gave a knowing nod, clearly revealing such was the speculation rampant among the besieged. "There are three with last name Baratheon who would give place themselves in precedence before their uncle," he nevertheless countered.

"By their pretty blonde, Lannister looks?" not Ned scoffed. "Show me a single hint of the Stag in Joffrey Waters? By the boy's madness, if Aerys Targaryen hadn't already been dead, I'd have suspected _him_ of sliding between Cersei's thighs thirteen years ago. Did you hear how the bastard had his loyal, honorable Kinsguard torture my daughter?!" he spat, mimicking perfectly the Blackfish's tone from earlier.

The troubled look that crossed Ser Jacelyn's stolid face revealed that the news of his not daughter's abuse wasn't limited to just inside the Red Keep.

Thoughts of broken Sansa huddled pitifully in his tent, slipping the last four days between hysterical and catatonic, made Sean want to go spare. He breathed deep, trying to collect himself. "Your pardon, Ser." He cleared his throat before continuing. "It was my gaining knowledge of that mad boy's true parentage which drove the Lannisters to arrest me. The morning after dear Robert's death, as his acknowledged Regent, I intended to proclaim Stannis' ascension to the Iron Throne in front of the royal court … that is until Littlefinger's gold and Janos Slynt's greed intervened on behalf of the Lions. In the end, before Baelor's Sept, they sought to silence me forever." 'Well it didn't go down quite like that for old Ned, but why confuse things by bringing up some niggling details.' "But as you see, I refused to stay silent. 'Nice line, mate,' he congratulated himself.

The gold cloak captain remained silent and thoughtful throughout the Lord of Winterfell's little speech, the only emotion showing, and that a cold one, at the mention of Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch. "Stannis will be little loved," the knight finally commented cooly.

"Yes, he won't be," the actor agreed. 'I won't piss on your leg and call it rain; at least not for the teeth grinder. I wonder who David and DB will get to play him Season Two.' The idea that his disappearance might cause trouble for the future of the program had crossed the actor's mind on many occasion, but for the most part he'd buried those thoughts; his sanity for whatever reason took solace in thinking life 'back there' meandered happily along while he valiantly struggled to set things right in George's private hell hole. "But rest assured, were Stannis under siege, he would suffer and starve alongside his people. Can the same be said of the Lannisters or Lord Renly?" 'Damn, shouldn't have mentioned that bender,' Sean winced inside.

Jacelyn Bywater grunt indicated the negative.

"And Stannis, while strict, will at least rule with justice and wisdom," not Ned continued. "Not the capriciousness of a spoiled, coddled little boy."

This last drew a snort of derision. "Do not be so certain, my Lord. Morality is not always the same as wisdom. While Master of Laws, King Stannis tried to forbid whores from spreading their … wares." The knight whistled a tone of wonderment and continued. "How's the Watch to enforce _that_?"

Now it was time for Sean to look thoughtful. 'At least he referred to Stannis as King,' passed through part of the actor's brain. While the other half wondered, 'What sort of bloody fool outlaws quim.' Not Ned sighed. "I will present his Grace with a few strongly phrased … suggestions."

"Or he can damn well fight Renly alone," the Blackfish muttered, obviously dismayed by Stannis' act of priggish stupidity.

The actor half grimaced, bothered that the other competitor for the Iron Throne was mentioned again, and half smirked, amused that apparently whores did not run contrary to the knight's precious sense of honor. He waited nervously to see whether Bywater might find George's amiable Renly a more palatable King than the dogged Stannis and not open the gate to them after all. Thankfully his worry quickly proved needless.

"So where is the King?" the gold cloak captain inquired.

"His fleet has already sailed from Dragonstone." 'Or at least he damn well better have now that I'm almost assured of making him permanently beholden to me,' Sean thought with Machiavellian like clarity. 'There's lots to do and little time to do it in!' "His army shall join mine within a week."

"And you'll hand him the Iron Throne?"

"No. With your assistance, I'll happily present him with King's Landing, but he must take the Red Keep and the Iron Throne himself. Right of conquest will mean as much for his claim to Kingship as being Robert's eldest brother and true heir. Much as I crave vengeance on the bastard Joffrey Waters, it will be better for the realm if King Stannis passes _that_ judgment."

"Clever," Ser Jacelyn murmured with a tone of approval and then moved business like on to the gritty details encompassed in gift wrapping an entire city. Or at least one gate into it.

* * *

"I'm soaked," Robb complained to not Ned; displeased at the brief, just ended, downpour that had interrupted the mere steady drizzle of the last six hours. The cover provided by bad weather had been the prerequisite for opening the Mud Gate to the, if luck held, not so forlorn hope of the group of warriors riding down a hodgepodge of craft on the Blackwater. That, and Bywater's treachery not being double crossed by one of his men for Lannister gold.

Water had slid between the rings of the actor's chainmail and dripped down inside the collar too, turning his tunic and smallclothes into a giant sodden mess. The nasal guard of his open faced helm had, as expected, proved useless at keeping the rain out of his eyes. The chill ten centigrade or less temps didn't make the situation any more comfortable either. But the lad from Sheffield stoically shrugged inside; miserable as it was, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. "All the better then should they start dropping wildfire on us," he responded with fake cheer. Sean suspected burning to death would be far worse than say drowning, though he feared that fate enough he had reluctantly not worn Harry and Clint's magical and heavy plate armor. All-in-all he much preferred the idea of dying comfortably in bed … at a very, very old age. 'Ha! As if Westeros will let me, you bastard, George.'

Next to his not son, but strategically as always for whatever reason on the side away from not Ned, stood Grey Wind. The rain wicked off his thick coat and steam left his snout with every breath of nippy air. The weather didn't appear to bother the direwolf in the least. Neither did the rocking of the boat, as it heaved through the wind churned, rain pelted wave tops of the river. Grey Wind didn't appear impressed with the actor's gallows humor. But the beast did perk up when the galley's rudder got thrown over and turned them in towards shore; one of the thirty odd mismatched boats working the river in order to unload near five hundred men beneath the city's walls. Then, before the galley could kiss the wharf, Grey Wind bounded up to the bow, knocked a few men over on their arses, distracted several rowers hauling in their sculls, and leapt through the late night gloom to land silent as death on the retaining wall.

"Grey Wind," Robb hissed in disapproval.

"Leave him be, nephew," the Blackfish commented through the darkness. "If there's trickery a foot, he'll smell it out soon enough."

Sean agreed. The books indicated the beast, in fact all the direwolves, had a sort of sixth sense for danger and treachery. Even if the overgrown mutt never warmed to the actor, so long as he never became aggressive towards the actor, Sean intended to keep the beast or one of his siblings near him at all times. 'Westeros sucks,' was his watch word, well the only one of his many watch words that didn't have at least a single profanity in it.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Boats began abutting the quays. Ladders were planted. Men in chain and leather began to scramble out.

The butterflies in Sean's stomach churned faster as he climbed up and joined the ranks of killers, murderers, and savages trying unsuccessfully to form up in five tight squares. A few sergeants barked softly at their squads, trying to make sure they were grouped with the right banner; an almost impossible task in a dual night and water borne operation. 'Well no plan survives first contact with the enemy, or the shore,' the actor thought sarcastically.

The uneven blocks of men started to shuffle their feet, as if uncertain how to proceed. An elbow nudged him none too gently in the side. Sean turned and saw Brynden staring back at him. 'Oh.' "To the gate," he called out in a low, clear voice; "Wolves first, Twins second, Mermen third, Eagle fourth, Blue Eyes fifth." And with that command, not Ned started marching forward toward the protrusion in the tall city wall formed by the towering gatehouse around the Mud Gate.

Nearing the wide, thick doors, his hundred or so wolves slowed down and not Ned continued on alone. He drew his longsword and pounded the pommel against a black band of reinforcing iron on the gate. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rain muffled the clashing some, but it still sounded impossibly loud to Sean.

"Who comes?" a voice called down from above.

"Justice," the actor cried back.

"Who's justice?"

"The King's!"

A score of men high up on the battlements or behind arrow slits chorused back, "Stannis."

Sean swallowed heavily. The part of him that remembered cell phones and email couldn't believe grown men would use such childish sounding phrases as the preface for murder and mayhem. Most of him was simply relieved nothing, yet, had gone cock up.

Creeeeeeeeak!

Not Ned practically jumped out of his skin as one half the gate fought inertia, rust, and several tons of weight to nudge five feet open. He felt certain they'd sent a clarion cry of alarm all the way past the Red Keep and deep out across Blackwater Bay.

A light flickered and Jacelyn Bywater stepped through the gap into the wet night carrying a hooded lantern. Tiny pricks of bright color danced through narrow slits revealing the knight no longer wore a gold cloak. Instead, across his shoulders rested a grey cape, with the hint of a wolf embroidered near one shoulder. "I've two trusted squads ready to take your men through the city," he announced without preamble or pretense for quiet.

Sean waived an arm and his ears immediately picked up the sound of his wolves moving forward. He gestured at Ser Jacelyn to turn back through the gate and followed after the iron hand man. "What about the whores?" he stage whispered.

The question must have brought memories of the conversation two nights before and the knight smiled. "Hamstrung," was all he answered, knowing full well the question pertained to the three largest of King's Landing's catapults, located not too far past the Mud Gate in Fishmonger's Square.

"Good," not Ned exhaled. He quickly spotted two separate clumps of the captain's men, a dozen no longer gold cloaks each. "Which is for the King's Gate and which for the Gate of the Gods?"

Ser Jacelyn pointed towards the group further back in Fishmonger's Square and to the north. "The Gods," he uttered.

At that moment Sean felt the direwolf bound past him. Many of the gathered turn cloaks gasped in surprise and fear. "Grey Wind, heel," he called. The huge beast let loose a brief whimpered as it pulled into a sit, instead of coming back to heel by the actor. 'Damn dog.'

Then the monster started nonchalantly scratching an itch with a hind paw. "Ser Brynden? Robb?" he called.

"Here, father."

"Here, Lord Stark."

"Take the Wolves, Twins, and Mermen as soon as they're all through with those of Ser Jacelyn's men." Not Ned pointed at the group the knight had earlier indicated. "They'll take you to the Gate of the God's. You've the furthest to go. Understand?"

Both his not son and not uncle nodded. Of course they understood, the Blackfish had come up with the two pronged plan. Sean, scared enough at the possible prospect of battle, or worse ambush, to piss his pants, wished to go over it again, but knew it pointless. He must become Ned; cool, calm, and deadly. "Old Gods watch over you," he called, and then stepped back, making sure he didn't block the steady stream of his loyal killers slipping in through the cracked open gate.

Soon enough the designated banners were gathered together and started heading across the square towards Muddy Way for the twisting, turning alleys that passed through the heart of the city. Grey Wind of course led the way. And as the last two hundred Mallister and Flint troops formed up near Sean, he heard the first distant cries of surprise echo out as some late night reveler or early morning worker encountered a direwolf and a bevy of hard charging fighters.

"Shall you lead, my lord," Ser Jacelyn asked courteously.

"You know the way, Ser," not Ned responded graciously and swept his hand to the left, the southwest.

A feral grin brightened the turncoat captain's face and he snapped his fingers. A dozen grey cloaks holding spears immediately started marching towards the entrance of River Row and the shortest way to the King's Gate.

Sean looked sternly at the Eagles and Blue Eyes around him. "Time to crack some heads, lads," he announced.

* * *

"Who goes there?!" an agitated, surprised voice shouted out through the drizzle and darkness.

"Bugger," Sean snarled. The King's Gate lay just visible a mere fifty yards away, but between the front of not Ned's force and the unsuspecting gatehouse, some stupidly, over-enterprising patrol of gold cloaks had apparently decided to chance the rain and make their rounds.

"Charge!" Ser Jacelyn bellowed in response to the challenge.

Instantly the closest ranks lowered spears or yanked out swords and drove right at the impediment to their destination. The impediment, at least initially, didn't prove to be much. The thunder of feet and screaming of battle cries startled the ten or so hapless members of the watch until they recovered their wits and turned tail back to the gatehouse. The last of the fleeing shits slid in through the closing door a second before the crowd of Northmen and Riverlanders arrived.

"Don't let them drop the bar in place," some clever dick yelled.

The first wave of men threw themselves at the door and heaved, inching the barrier open. A spear and a sword got shoved into the narrow gap. A good thing too, since more weight got thrown against the entrance from the inside, pulling it almost shut except for the obstructions.

"Pull!" "Tug harder!" "Fuckers!" men from both sides screamed.

The hinges squeaked as the door peeked open again, but this time spear came lancing both inward and outward. A man grunted. And then a second gave a mortal shriek and pitched down into the gutter. Shouts of triumph rose as Sean's lads started to realize there was no way the gold cloaks could secure the door against them.

Taaaa-Dooooo. Taaaa-Dooooooo.

The alarm horn peeled out from atop the King's Gate, drowning out the now feeble sounding cries of victory and letting all know this entrance to the city was under attack.

From the middle of the crowd, Sean at last saw the door pulled open far enough that dangerous men wielding swords could now force their way into the gatehouse.

"Move!" men shouted. "Find the winch!" "Raise the portcullis!" "Open the gate!" they bellowed and cried.

Slowly, like sand dripping through an hour glass, the riled warriors started pushing the defenders within further and further back; making room for their compatriots to follow in behind and add to the butchery.

"Piss," a man next to Sean hissed painfully. The actor looked over; an arrow stuck through the meaty part of the man's arm.

"Bows!" the cry went up. And those still on the outside of the gatehouse surged forward even more to avoid the threat of shafts lashing down from the outer wall. Sean shoved ahead as hard as any of them, looking for both relief and an outlet to discharge the shame at the cowardice he felt while not wearing his plot deflecting armor. Was there no end to the deadly tricks George could literally throw at him?

Not Ned at last squeezed through the doorway, stepping on and over bodies already bled out from ghastly slashes and deep punctures. Longsword in hand he headed for the nearest egress from the guard's room, looking in his sudden spiral of madness to add to the death about him.

Sean ran down a hall. All the doors already kicked open. He snatched a sight of a gold cloak, begging for mercy, getting stabbed in the chest.

"Stairs?!" a voice shouted.

"Back here," another behind the actor shouted.

Sean snapped his head around in surprise. He'd run past the doorway to the stairs without even noticing it. Everything was happening both too fast and too slow. He turned and followed the lads. His breath came in heaving gasps as he tried to rush up the stairs; eager to push past his mates while also careful to not trip and get trampled.

"Do ya hears?! Do ya hears?!" a man laughed with excitement.

Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak. Woosh. Creeeeaak.

A resounding cheer shook the stones of the gatehouse. Somewhere, up, down, Sean hadn't a clue, his men had found the winches and were opening the gate. He prayed that Lords Glover and Bracken were paying attention and had their designated two thousand men ready to swarm in from the staging area back at the edge of the Tourney Grounds.

"AAAH!" a crazed man screamed, hurtling down the stairs. The gold cloak smashed into a distracted Flint man at arms, knocking him down and into several of his mates. The attacker kept coming, his sword flashed, blood sprayed from a loped off forearm. A Mallister tried to grab the gold cloak around the waste, but a pommel to the back of his neck dropped him like an ox in a slaughter house.

The killer's blade came close, close, close. 'Shit! He's aiming at me,' flashed through Sean's mind. He snatched his head and chest back. The blade scrapped across his chainmail. The actor might have seen sparks, but wasn't sure. He raised his arm. It all seemed so slow.

"Oooof!" The breath exploded out of the gold cloak. He slumped, staggering down onto Sean. The man felt incredibly heavy, yet also ridiculously light. Not Ned shifted his back foot for a better purchase and then twisted his weight, shedding the body trying to trap him, push him over. The dying man, with blood already frothing at his lips, fell, fell, fell.

Clank.

The gold cloak hit the stairs.

Snarls of approval met his foe's defeat. He looked at the sword in front of him, swathed in blood. "Let's go kill some more of the fuckers!" he roared, exhilarated that he wasn't the one losing his life.

The snarls turned into outright cheers.

'Gods I feel alive!' he thought in amazement.


	22. Chapter 21

Only a few whiffs of smoke hovered over the plethora of house banners waving in the light breeze passing through the harbor, though the scent of soot lay heavy in the air. All the senior members of every Noble and Masterly House of the Riverlands and the North present in King's Landing stood at attention, displaying their martial glory beneath each one's proud blazon; arrayed in whatever clean finery they could discover in the bottom of their baggage or hastily purchase from the more intrepid clothing merchants who'd dared to reopen their stores. The last two days had been a whirlwind for the lords; first fighting to keep the city from burning down and then struggling to keep both the army and the population from exploding in riots, thievery, rapes, and murder.

The King's Gate had fallen easily enough, but not before its gold cloaked defenders could sound the alarm. At the Lion's gate, the next entrance down from King's, nervous gold cloaks, fearing a night attack, had shot wildfire out of their catapults in hopes of creating enough light to see what turned out to be a non-existent assault of their area. Tragically, some fool had mishandled one of the containers of the volatile substance and the resulting blaze had not only left the gate a smoldering ruin but destroyed ten blocks of buildings, houses, and slums around it. Not Ned had led most of the two thousand men brought in through the King's Gate by Lords Jonos and Galbart in tearing down any structure in the path of the flames to make a fire break. Luckily the gold cloaks lacked the numbers, leadership, and gumption, most like terrified of the eerie, green hued flame, to launch a counterattack against the distracted invaders.

Nearly a thousand men had made it through the Gate of the Gods before the situation went balls up in another great blaze of wildfire. Sean later learned from Robb that his own trust in Grey Wind's uncanny instincts had proven correct when the direwolf had wound up leading his two legged brother and a score of men through a bewildering series of twists and turns inside the gatehouse, ultimately taking them through underground storerooms before emerging aboveground, to escape the inferno. And the Blackfish, immediately sensing the impending disaster, promptly took charge leveling buildings and shops to remove fuel from the threatening flames. Again the gold cloaks proved pleasingly feckless, and when approached in the early morning hours by modest sized armed contingents at the Dragon and Old Gates, swiftly surrendered at the first whiff of amnesty. Not Ned had promptly set Ser Jacelyn to sorting out the competent and trustworthy of the surrendered from the inept and corrupt.

Fleabottom and most of the other slums had erupted at the hint of the end of Lannister-Baratheon authority; running amok, abusing each other at first before quickly moving out to spread mayhem into wealthier neighborhoods. By noon a contingent of Winterfell and Riverrun banners were encamped on Aegon's Hill keeping a wary eye on the Red Keep, while most of the rest of the Northern and Riverland warriors were beating back the rioters. More buildings burned as some of the dispossessed turned arsonist, but luckily these blazes lacked the insidious presence of wildfire and were mostly contained easily enough. To Sean's chagrin not all of his army had heeded his warnings and maintained discipline; thus two score of the worst murderers and rapists from his own ranks were reduced in height by the length of a head. He did not wish himself or his allies to be tarred with the same shit stained brush that followed the Lannisters after their sack of King's Landing during Robert's Rebellion.

A uneasy calm had settled upon the city when sails, an armada full, were spied off in the distance of the bay. Sean had quickly scribbled a letter and sent the more gregarious of the walrus like Manderly brothers, Ser Wendel, who at least had experience with the sea being from White Harbor, on the largest of the available river galleys to deliver it. And now a dozen great war galleys and a score of smaller vessels were sweeping up the Blackwater Rush, skirting as close to the far shore as the water depth would allow in order to avoid any wayward boulders launched from the besieged Red Keep. Apparently satisfied that no Lannister trickery lay in wait, the signal was raised by the scout ships and now the mighty Fury rowed against the tide. Stannis Baratheon, true heir to the Iron Throne, had at last arrived from Dragonstone and Sean gazed anxiously at his flagship, looking for any clue as to what kind of King the man might prove to be.

Only the main sail flew on the Fury, the galley relying primarily on its triple bank of oars to negotiate the narrowing channel into the river. The sight of the crowned stag of Stannis' House on the wide spread of canvas did little to ease the actor's disquiet; an entire sail was harder to change than a mere pennant and the windblown position of the banner floating over the flagship frustrated all his efforts to discern its sewn in figure. At last the breeze shifted and instead of flapping to the east, south-east, the pennant atop the main mast fluttered due north. "Ahhhh," he sighed with evident pleasure.

"What is it, goodbrother?" Edmure asked light heartedly. As heir to Riverrun and thus the second highest ranking lord present, he stood directly next to not Ned in the middle of the double row of lords, lordlings, and knights arrayed on the wharf. "You sound as if you've just sipped a particularly fine red. Pray tell, do you have enough to share?" he japed.

The significance that a crowned stag, and only a crowned stag, lay woven in the pennant was lost on the collection of Northern and Riverland nobles. No sign of flames or a burning heart appeared to pervert the traditional emblem of the Storm Kings. Perhaps another one of Sean's bets had paid off. When he'd nixed the misguided 'King of the North' scheme and thrown his not inconsiderable, reincarnated Stark weight behind Stannis' candidacy, he'd purposefully failed to mention that his 'visions' included the strong possibility that the new King would cast off his lip service devotion to the Seven. This throw of the dice, like most of his plan for saving Westeros, had depended on beating the Lannisters quickly, thus upsetting the machinations of all the other nasty buggers playing the game of thrones. His northmen wouldn't have cared a scraggily mouse arse if the man worshiped a steaming pile of dung, so long as he fought like the devil and left them alone in their frigid fastness. But the piety and support of most Riverlanders would have been fatally wounded by such a betrayal. If luck held, and Stannis hadn't yet had himself proclaimed Azor Ahai by the Red Woman, then the actor would have one less chasm to try and diplomatically bridge between the King and his powerful, yet still wary, Seven worshiping subjects.

"No, the change in breeze simply felt refreshing after swallowing all this soot," he lamely explained.

"So long as it's blowing in the damned Lion's maw, I'm alright with it," the Greatjon called from his position in the line a few down from not Ned.

At the mention of the Lannisters and the Red Keep, Ser Brynden's nagging voice announced, "We should tell him." As Edmure's heir, he stood directly behind his nephew; and the honor bound Blackfish wouldn't let the subject drop.

"No," Roose Bolton disagreed softly.

'Speak up, fuck head,' Sean wanted to shout, he could barely hear the scary pale man from his position directly on the other side of Sean from Edmure; placed there knowingly in accordance with the adage of 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer no matter the shivers doing so sent up your back.'

With no heir but a psychopathic bastard in need of killing back at the Dreadfort, a captain known as Steelshanks attended the Leech Lord as his second. "Lord Stark is wise," the Leach Lover continued quietly. "Let our liege judge whether this King is worthy of winning the throne for himself or … not."

"It lacks honor," Ser Brynden complained fiercely.

"It has … flexibility," Ser Stevron retorted agreeably, from his position beside Edmure; granted him because his father had joined the North's crusade first and because the adage that applied to the Boltons applied equally as well to the Freys. Ser Stevron's portly and even fatter headed son Ryman stood dimwittedly and mute behind his father.

"Bah," the Blackfish snorted with scorn.

"Our Lord deserves our forbearance," Halys Hornwood said respectfully. "These are ill times," he proclaimed. And didn't that lord know it, his only child and heir, Daryn, had fallen in the Whispering Woods to the sword of the Kingslayer and hardly a contrary peep had he uttered on Ser Jaime's exchange. And now the captain of his castle's guard, and not his son, attended him. "And few have been his missteps in guiding us to such great victories. Lord Stark has well-earned my faith in him."

A general murmur of agreement arose from the gathered lords and their deputies. Grey Wind, beside Robb, right behind Sean, even gave a brief yip that sounded like concurrence. From what the actor could tell, Rickard Karstark, who still held a grudge at Jaime Lannister's exchange, didn't join in to express a positive sentiment. And who could blame Brynden's burst of petulance. Just that morning his scouts had at last found a secret passage into the Red Keep and now not Ned wanted to hold off using it. The actor caught Lord Halys' eye and shared an appreciative smile at the words from the easy going man without an heir. Sean knew the man had a bastard son fostering with the Glovers, but he suspected a better solution might lay with the absent green sentinel tree banner of House Tallhart. Lord Helman, who was still babysitting Walder Frey in the Twins, had a brother married to Halys' sister; and that couple had a pair of sons. 'Easier to go that route than ask stiff necked Stannis to legitimize a bastard,' he thought. 'Of course some damned ignorant arse will complain that unfairly elevates the Tallharts from a masterly house to a noble one. Piss on all stupid, prickly feudal privileges,' he grumbled.

The next half hour, as the Fury pulled its way upstream and docked at the wharf, Sean participated lightly in the chatter of his lords while reserving most of his brain power for figuring how best to handle the coming storm named Stannis.

* * *

The Fury barely fit alongside the hastily repaired pier jutting out from the wharf into the Backwater Rush. Sailors nimbly hopped down to join the carefully selected group of dockworkers in securing the huge warship. As a gang plank was manhandled up to a gap amid ship in the superstructure, not Ned craned his neck around trying to see who would exit along with the tall, yet lean balding figure that waited with such obvious ill patience. He easily spotted the bulky form of Ser Wendel along with a few nondescript knights and squires. 'Please no red, please no red, please no red,' Sean chanted to himself.

Down the man purposefully strode, reaching the pier and pivoting before forcefully marching toward the gathered flower of his not yet complete, nor won, kingdom. Sean barely noted the blue eyes, strong jaw beneath a tight beard, and tight, almost gaunt face, while judging the man to be a good fifteen centimeters taller than his own height; no hint at all of a brotherly kinship with the jovial Mark Addy, the not Robert, and none could be expected from George's description of the Baratheon brothers in the books. Most of the actor's attention was in fact focused on the vast sense of relief that passed through him for no one he spied was wearing an overwhelming amount of red, and even better no woman at all had followed the new king off the Fury. He took a deep breath as his new monarch stopped almost on top of him. 'Remember mate, just because he's an ignorant savage, don't mean he lacks a brain.'

"Hail Stannis!" he shouted before the grim, suspicious face before him could open its thin lips.

His nobles responded on cue. "Hail Stannis!" they thundered in unison.

As one they drew swords.

Surprise danced across that taciturn face.

The Riverlanders and Northerners all knelt together on one knee.

"The King! The King!" the first row cried.

"Yours is the fury!" the rest chanted.

Sean thought that for just an instant a whisper of a smile started to form on that bitter face at the bit of showmanship not Ned had convinced, with only a modicum of trouble, his fellow lords to perform. Instead the man nodded briefly, as if acknowledging he'd only received his just due. 'Damn, that man needs a therapist.'

"Arise good lords," Stannis announced in a bass voice rumbling with a hint of thunder and crashing rocks. "Sheath your swords, which you've wielded so justly on my behalf against the usurper Lannisters and their bastard offspring."

The words, while not effusive, were gracious enough. As not Ned stood up he noted sufficient satisfaction at the King's words on the faces of those lords he spied. "How may we serve you, your Grace?"

"I would proclaim my arrival to the rebels inside my keep, Lord Stark," he proclaimed.

"You desire a parley, your Grace?" Edmure asked.

"If the adultering lioness, her brother lover, and their abomination dare face my ire, Ser," Stannis answered in a tone full of heat and contempt.

Sean wasn't sure if there had been an extra emphasis, along with the quickest of glares at not Ned, during the flinty man's mention of the Kingslayer. The message Ser Wendel delivered to Stannis had amongst its paragraphs included a summary of the exchange for Sansa and the conclusion of Littlefinger's and Vary's participation on the Small Council.

"And afterwards," the King continued with moderate condescension, "I would meet with you, my lords, and hear your words. There is much still to learn before I make my plans; the Kingdom yet trembles from the throws of rebellion."

'You have no idea,' Sean thought snidely, before replying politely. "Shall we show you the way, your Grace?"

"I have lived here more years than you, Lord Stark," Stannis said with a scowl. "I know the way to my keep."

Robb, behind not Ned, stifled a gasp at the insult to his not father.

'Oh you are a cheeky bugger,' the actor thought wryly, plastering a civil smile on his phiz.

As if unaware or unconcerned about the slight, the King didn't even hesitate as he kept on talking. "We will wait for my chief Dragonstone banners to dock, so they may accompany the procession as well. Lords Celtigar, Sunglass, and Velaryon have dutifully claimed my right to the Iron Throne from the beginning."

The hint was unmistakable, Stannis still had a grumkin lodged up his stony arse about the 'King in the North' nonsense. When the King turned away from not Ned and Edmure to start greeting the other lords, the actor noticed that one of the two squires now standing patiently behind the King wore a coat of arms with a white onion on the sail of a black ship. 'And Ser Davos too, I hope. You supposedly listen to his hard truths. And have I got some brutally hard and completely unbelievable ones to tell you about.'

* * *

Not Ned waited a long hour at the wharf for Stannis to feel sufficiently secure in the number of 'loyal' banners about him before the whole party departed for the Red Keep. During the delay the tight faced, thin lipped man tried his best to individually greet each lord and exchange simple courtesies with them, but only proved how limited his skills at small talk were; and, for those lords who'd been at Riverrun after the Lannister siege had been broken how vast his reservoir of hard feeling. The only lord whom he truly seemed to get along with, which Sean found quite unsettling, was Roose Bolton. Perhaps, the actor hoped, that was only because Stannis couldn't hear any of the whispering bastard's answers and simply assumed they were agreements to whatever insights or pleasantries the King offered up.

The first of the 'major' lords sworn to Dragonstone to arrive had been wrinkled old Ardrian Celtigar on his ornate galley Red Claw. Sean couldn't tell if the prune's white hair came solely from age or a bit of the Targaryen blood that Tytos Blackwood's knowledgeable, freakishly tall son Hos had told him one night in prepping the actor on which lords would most likely accompany Stannis. The second of significance to disembark had been Guncer Sunglass, who proclaimed his House's devotion to the Seven through the same numbered gold stars emblazoned on its coat of arms. Sean wondered what he thought about the Priestess of R'hllor. 'How do you even pronounce R'hllor?' he wondered for the umpteenth time, never having dared ask anyone for fear even speaking the word might somehow magically alert her. Paranoia was a given in Westeros as far as Sean was concerned. The last lord of consequence, the handsome, Targaryen blond haired Monford Velaryon, had arrived at the wharf on the Pride of Driftmark. When Stannis abruptly starting marching to the Mud Gate, the actor was disappointed to see the black ship and onion emblazoned sail of Davos Seaworth's galley still rowing hard as it entered the tidal estuary of the Blackwater Rush. 'We need all the sane men this great oaf will listen to,' he thought.

Stannis disdained the offer of a horse and paid no heed to the older lords who lacked the stamina to keep up with the King's brisk pace. His own Lord Celtigar suffered the worse and by the time the party came to the end of the Hook at the foot of Aegon's Hill, the old man could no longer be seen. Upward Stannis marched, straight into the square fronting the huge bronze gates in the curtain wall, passing through the thin lines of House Vance men-at-arms assigned that day to keep watch on the keep. When the determined man showed no sign of slowing down, many shouted warnings of archers hiding behind the parapet above, which he ignored. None of the lords hesitated and they all followed their new King out into bow range. Some clever thinking green dragon and watchtower captain from Atranta snatched up a white flag and ran in front of Stannis.

At last the King stopped and held out a hand. A squire in House Seaworth livery immediately reached into a leather pouch, extracted a rolled up parchment, and handed it to Stannis. His non Seaworth squire then gestured at a pair of men at arms who pulled long trumpets out of what Sean had thought were great sword scabbards on their backs.

Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee!

Helmeted heads slowly started to bob up and appear in the embrasures of the battlements. A large figure in white boldly stepped out of one of the two gatehouses and stood smack dab in the middle above the gates.

"We'll take any wine merchants, but mummers and fools only enter through the postern!" the man shouted.

"Clegane," Stannis muttered darkly, well knowing his no longer nephew's burned face bodyguard.

"Where's your motley, Stannis?! I need a good laugh! Moonboy needs a new assistant!"

The red cloaks and those gold cloaks still loyal to the Lannisters safely guffawed and cheered at the Hound's bravado from their perches high atop the keep's outer walls.

"Here my words!" the crowned Stag bellowed. "Here my words!" To no effect.

Both squires quickly gestured and the pair of trumpeters blew again.

Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee! Dadadeeeee!

The trumpets did what Stannis' harrumphing could not. He used the brief silence to loudly read his edict. _"All men know me for the true born son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of his Name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; and, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."_

The non Seaworth squire now reached into a large leather pouch attached to his belt and pulled out a crown of red gold with points fashioned in the shapes of flames.

"Damn!" Sean barked, causing those around him to jerk about and snap glances at him. His stomach dropped and his eyes darted about, looking for any sign of _HER_, Melisandre.

Stannis, having turned away from the keep to face his banners, accepted the R'hllor influenced circlet and placed it firmly on his bald dome.

"Hail Stannis!" Sean suddenly shouted, trying a bit of improv at Stannis' unexpected self-coronation. "Hail King Stannis!" he kept yelling; turning his head about as if to encourage others to join in, all the while warily searching for the deadly, red bitch.

In a ragged wave, many of the lords who'd participated earlier in not Ned's little production down at the docks caught a clue and added in their cries of "Hail King Stannis!" The men of Houses Vance, both from Wayfairer's Rest and Altranta, bless them, started to join in too.

Tempted as he was, Sean this time did not draw his sword, fearing it would be taken as a violation of the impromptu parley. He did though drop to one knee and roared "The King! The King!"

The others followed his cue and fell to a knee as well while changing their chant. Only a few voices tried to repeat their lines from the earlier show, and the calls of "Yours is the fury!" were mostly drowned out by the thunderous cries of "The King! The King!"

A look almost akin to pleasure slipped over the rigid son of a bitch. The number of times men cheered Stannis could probably be counted on the prickly fingers of just one of his cold hands. With a wrench, no doubt distrustful at the unexpected acclamation, his lips pinched and a slightly dyspeptic look replaced any evidence of joy. The King at least raised his hands in an awkward gesture of acknowledgement.

'Well, no septon crowned him, but at least no red priestess either.' Sean sighed, realizing things could have gone worse. His status as undisputed alpha wolf was now over. From here on out the actor needed to use his brains as much as his bark or his bite if he were to save Westeros, let alone keep on living.

When the tumult began to peter out, the flinty man spun back around to again address the defenders atop the pale, rust colored stone wall. "Men of the Red Keep, you have one day to amend your ways and proclaim me your King. Those who do so, I will pardon them their treason. You will be free to enter my service or return unmolested to your homes. If you force me to take the fortress by storm, you may expect no mercy. Any who survive the assault will be offered choice of the Wall or a noose!"

"You better go fuck yourself Stannis, cause no one else wants to touch your cold cock," the Hound shot back.

And with one last scowl, the crowned stag abruptly turned about and exited stage left.


	23. Chapter 22

In the disorganized jumble that followed the King, Edmure took the lead in first reaching Stannis and then guiding him part way down Aegon's Hill to what passed for the Northern-Riverland alliance's headquarters; an establishment acquired from the estate of Lord Baelish. In fact many, if not most, of the buildings now housing the Northern and Riverland host either belonged to or had been rented out by late, unlamented Littlefinger. The men, in what little spare time allotted them so far, enjoyed the cut rate prices they received for not throwing the whores out onto the street. However this particular edifice had simply housed a set of merchants who provided fine clothing, delicately blown glass, silver ware, and other high end knickknacks desired by the rapacious nobility and the rich magnates ensconced near the Iron Throne. Fortunately for the King's reputed temperament, no hint of a mere brothel or even high class courtesans permeated the place. The gaggle of lordlings and senior knights gathered in a central courtyard, many trying successfully or not to garner the attention of the newly crowned and still dyspeptic stag, until dinner was served; at which point men literally pushed and punched one another to gain entrance to the room where Stannis was taken to dine.

The meal was modest; a barley stew with leeks, turnips, potatoes, and few pieces of stringy beef in each bowl. The serving wenches went around pouring a very pale, very thin ale in everyone's tankards, which finally elicited a strong comment from pretty Lord Monford, "Ugh, enough woman, are you trying to kill me," he swore, waiving off the server trying to refill his mug. "This slop isn't fit for my hunting dogs, your Grace. They'd sooner drink water than this piss."

"So would I, Lord Velaryon," Stannis proclaimed, but meaning it for another reason, though few in the room knew it.

"Our pardon, your Grace, my lords," Lord Bolton murmured. "With the Lannisters having laid waste to the smallfolk of the Trident, our own advance through the Crownlands, your own ships' blockade of the bay, and Lord Renly's cutting off the supply of food stuffs from the Stormlands and the Reach; there is barely enough to go around and keep the city from rioting over empty bellies and starving babes."

A look of disdain spread across the Lord of Driftmark's face that concerns over smallfolk would keep him from an enjoyable meal.

Stannis, however, cleared his throat. "It is dutifully done that we not enjoy bounty when the realm suffers," he said with not quite begrudging approval. "How soon before the Riverlands may tithe a portion of its abundance to King's Landing, Lord Edmure?"

Catelyn's brother cleared his throat. "There are still remnants of the Old Lion's army marching across my lands, sneaking back as best they may to Casterly Rock. And, ah, many bandits seem to have taken root as well. One band of outlaws even claims to be fighting for King Robert's justice, and where they can they attack my men-at-arms who visit villages to collect the harvest payment."

"We've sent patrols out on the Gold Road and the Rosby Road, your Grace," Ser Brynden interjected. "Much of the Crownlands has yet been untouched by war. With you now present and crowned in King's Landing we hope the lordlings from here to Duskendale and out to the Westerlands will open their store houses and start sending grain again by cart and wagon."

"The City's fishing fleet and sea borne merchants fled at our approach, your Grace," Robb added. "Did you meet them on your journey here? Perhaps they can be convinced to return to their trade?"

Lord Celtigar unleashed a smug cackle, "We picked up many a pathetic sea urchin as we sailed. They were a pleasant addition to our fleet."

Righteous anger flashed across the crowned stag's deep set dark blue eyes. "Any ship with legal ownership certificates issued through the Free Cities will be set free, they are not tainted by rebellion and thus not forfeit," he declared sternly.

Clearly a situation already existed between the King and his Dragonstone banners, all seagoing fiefdoms, over the condemnation and awarding of shiny copper pennies, pretty silver stags, and glittering golden dragons in ships prizes.

"Evil times the Lannisters' vile treachery has brought upon the realm," Lord Sunglass exclaimed. "And what of Lord Renly? Seeking to overthrow the will of the Seven by placing the younger brother over the older," he tsked. "The boy has ensorcelled the Tyrells with his charms. Will the Redwyne's fleet sail to his aid as well?"

"Lord Paxter's sons are held captive by Cersei, neutralizing the might of the Arbor," not Ned answered. "And there are other stratagems we can employ to whittle down Renly's advantages," he continued.

The tone in the room shifted perceptively at Lord Stark's mention of war tactics.

"Lord Stark?" Stannis suddenly blurted, jaw clenching and unclenching.

"Yes, your Grace?"

"I would … hear your council." His teeth ground and then let up enough to say, "in private."

* * *

"These magpies and their incessant bleating, I weary of it," Stannis announced, sitting down in a chair, but not inviting not Ned to do likewise.

The man appeared uncomfortable as he stared up at the actor. Not Ned smiled politely, bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the King's words, and said nothing in response.

The crowned stag brought his hands together, intertwining his fingers, and then cracked his knuckles.

'You can't intimidate me,' Sean thought. 'I'm Richard Sharpe. I'm Boromor. I'm fucking Odysseus. I'm a god damned Greek god! I'm a sly actor from Sheffield. Get on with it already ya hard arsed bugger.'

"What is your price, Lord Stark?"

Sean blinked in surprise, not that he hadn't readily anticipated that the question would be asked, but at the suddenness of it. Yet like the well trained actor he was, he recited his already crafted line naturally, with exactly the right tone of concern and gravity. "Peace, your Grace. Peace so my family, my banners, and the smallfolk of the North can have enough to eat, raise their children, and grow comfortably old in safe homes. Winter is coming; and harsh as it is, I would have it without the fear of war or rape or famine or worse. _That_ is my price, your Grace."

Stannis' eyes narrowed, perhaps as startled by the not Ned's unexpected answer as the actor had been by the King's blunt cut to the chase. "Your answer does you credit, Lord Stark; most of them," and he gestured in the direction of the dining hall, "would still be nattering on to me about lands, titles, a marriage alliance, and gold," he huffed in distaste. "Still, the question must be asked when your host's might so far surpasses my own." His eyelids drooped, giving not Ned a wary, suspicious look. "The whole Kingdom knows Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell has always done his duty, but you loved Robert like a brother, not me. Am I to believe it is only your honor that compels you to place me on the Iron Throne?" he asked guardedly.

Sean chuckled softly. 'Wow you really do have enough trust issues to keep a team of therapists in hock for years.'

Stannis ground his teeth. "I amuse you, my Lord?"

"My apologies, your Grace, truly. I had simply forgotten quite how direct you are. Most men, knowing what had befallen me at the Lannisters' hands," and with that, Sean made a chopping motion across his neck," would first seek to reassure themselves that I am actually Eddard Stark and not some clever mummer or sorcerer posing as him. But then, you are not most men, your Grace."

"Bah," the crowned stag snorted in dismissal. "I talked with your Ser Wendel on Fury. I've talked briefly with your lords here and watched how they act around you. Some are as foolish as any man, but only a true fool would believe a mummer, as you say, could pass himself off as Lord Stark to his wife, his family, and all the banners of the North."

'Surprise!' "And the Old Gods returning me to life? Showing me visions of the future, the present, and the past?" not Ned inquired with a tilt of his head.

Stannis' eyes flitted back and forth, as if reliving memories. "Yes," he whispered.

"Melisandre," Sean responded immediately.

The King's eyebrows first shot up and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How?" he demanded angrily.

Sean ignored the question and instead pointed at the flame shaped crown atop Stannis' head. "Do you now worship the Lord of Light, the Red God, your Grace?"

The King reached up and touched the red gold circlet, and an unreadable expression passed over him. "Lady … her Grace Selyse." He cleared his throat. "You worship trees and your Old Gods, Lord Stark, not the Seven. What do you care whom I worship?"

"I? I don't care, your Grace; that is true. But my price is peace. And if you publicly turn your back on the Seven; if you refuse to be seen in a sept; if you allow the Queen's followers to burn images of the Seven or worse, then you spurn the smallfolk and the pious among your lords and knights. Such actions, your Grace, destroy peace," not Ned explained.

Stannis ground his teeth yet again as he spat, "You claim only 'peace,' but make the gentle sounding word twist and turn in your mouth until it means whatever you want. You would enslave me with this easily adjustable 'peace' of yours. That you may do. That you may not. Where would it end? I refuse this chain you seek to leash me with, I am not some mummer's puppet. When my brother Renly is brought to heel, then Westeros shall have peace, Lord Stark."

Sean smiled as kindly and sympathetically as he could. "If only it were that simple, your Grace," the actor answered with a sigh.

"My patience … is not … without … limits," Stannis choked out. "If you do not intend to remain in King's Landing and help me against my brother; then be gone, and take your faithless banners with you. There are … other ways to deal with Lord Renly."

'Melisandre!' Sean felt his scrote retract into his body at the thought of her. "Your Red Priestess," he murmured.

Stannis' face remained set in stone, with its perpetual accusatory glare at the world, but something in his eyes betrayed surprise at her mention again.

"Tell me, your Grace," not Ned continued, "when she stares into the flames, what does she see of me? Do I prove faithless? Do I leave you in your time of need? Do I betray you? What does her Red God show her that makes you distrust me so?"

Stannis' close shaved beard bobbed like the sea as he chewed his sparse lip uncomfortably before responding. "As I said, you have always been a dutiful man, Lord Stark," he declared slowly, begrudgingly. "I told the Lady Melisandre so before I left Dragonstone."

'What? You're trying to dodge the question, ya bugger, and doing it badly. God you'd be an easy mark at poker.' "The truth this time, your Grace, what does she see of me?" Sean demanded, with Ned's icy steel in his voice.

His hollow cheeks mottled with anger, the King apparently outraged by anyone implying he would provide anything less than 'the truth.' "Nothing!" he at last barked unhappily.

"Nothing?" he echoed, confused.

"No. She cannot find even a shadow of you in the flame, Lord Stark," he admitted in bitter disappointment. "Nor anything you touch either, apparently."

'Holy shit!' the actor thought, elated; a weight of anxiety lifting off himself. 'Don't smile. Don't laugh.' Despite his best effort a smirk formed on Sean's lips. "An extra benefit of being resurrected that the Old Gods apparently failed to include in the visions they shared with me. I'd have slept better these last two months if I'd known that," he announced.

Stannis, through his recent association with the Red Woman, took the use and presence of magic very seriously, thus he didn't bat an eyelash of surprise at not Ned's statement. Heat now cooling some from his cheeks, he did suspiciously inquire, "The Lady Melisandre has proven most willing to aid me as her arts allow. You do not approve of her?"

"No, your Grace, I do not. She plays a game I know neither the rules to nor what constitutes a victory or a defeat. She …" Sean paused a moment, trying to remember the books and quickly figure out how to best press this seeming advantage over the crowned stag. "Let me … Let me ask you this, your Grace. What has the Red Priestess told you of the Krakens?"

That question brought Stannis up short, surprise showed on his stony mien. "House Greyjoy? Nothing. Why?"

Sean's smirk opened into a full blown superior smile. "The Lady Melisandre sees a lot of nothing in the flames." The actor felt his confidence soar. "You grew angry with me, your grace, when I said, 'if only it were that simple.' I'll tell you what I meant. First, Balon Greyjoy is gathering his banners and their longships. He's remaking the Iron Fleet. With the Seven Kingdoms in revolt, he intends to again declare himself the King of the Iron Islands."

With that pronouncement, not Ned watched Stannis' rollercoaster ride of emotions, though all of a type, and that negative, continue. The teeth grinding man had fought against George's take on Vikings before and still obviously harbored ill will for them. That ill will was now amplified by the Greyjoy threat to the sanctity of the realm the crowned stag now claimed to rule.

"But you have … ? Why are you still … ? Ahem. Do the ironborn not intend to attack the North, Lord Stark?" Stannis finally asked.

"They do, your Grace. Balon's been driven mad by his hate. I stole his last son. And even if I were to return my ward Theon to Pyke, Balon would never fully trust him; paranoid that his boy has suckled too long at the teat of the direwolf. Theon's use as a hostage is over. He can, perhaps, now only be used to help pick up the pieces once you shatter his father's folly."

Stannis, though he hated the fripperies and underhanded ploys so often associated with the game of thrones, clearly showed in his face that he understood the political ramifications of what not Ned had stated. He did however have holes to try and poke in the actor's fortune telling. "If they are to attack the north, how is it your banners were willing to come so far?"

"Because I haven't told them, your Grace," he answered seriously, though he felt like giggling. He suspected the sensation he felt was akin to what an inside trader in the City felt watching the value of his illicit stock purchase rise. "The Dustins, the Flints, the Ryswells, the Glovers, and the Mormonts wouldn't be here if they knew the ironborn were preparing to raid their homes, kill their smallfolks, and make saltwives of their women? No. I needed them here. Only you as King, your Grace, can bring a lasting peace to all of the Seven Kingdoms."

The crowned stag frowned. "My fleet is far from the Sunset Sea, Lord Stark; and, the Arbor is not declared for me," he announced, identifying the only other sea power able to match the ironborn. "Will Greyjoy attack the Westerlands and the Reach too?" he asked hopefully.

"They do. And you should know, your Grace, that Paxter Redwyne's two sons are right now in the Red Keep, Cersei's hostages. Should one of them, say, be returned to Lord Paxter; along with a warning of the coming storm of longships …"

"Yes, yes," Stannis snapped impatiently. "I am not addle minded, Lord Stark. A child can see the potential benefits of such … diplomacy. I mean to be the King of all the Seven Kingdoms, and would not see any part of it, even one in rebellion, suffer so," he declared resolutely.

'Touchy prick.' Not Ned bowed his head courteously, conceding the King's point. He, however, raised it back up with a superior smile on his face.

The dour look never left the crowned stag's face. "There's something more, isn't there?" he spat out.

"Did your Red Priestess see the cold of the Wall in her hot flames, your Grace?"

Stannis ground his teeth. "No. Not that I know of."

Sean nodded, encouraged by his response. "There's another King in Westeros, your Grace. A King-Beyond-the-Wall. His name is Mance Rayder, a former black brother of the Watch."

Stannis stopped grinding and started gnawing his lips. "The Wildlings are not part of the Seven Kingdoms. What is this so called King to me? Let the Night's Watch deal with their wayward brother. 'Tis their duty, and their duty alone, to defend the realm from the Wall," he stated with uncomfortable justification.

"Even when Mance means to lead one hundred thousand wildlings through the Wall to settle the North?"

The King took a large breath, as if preparing himself, and rubbed his beard. His hand may have hid any heat rising in his cheeks, but fire shone in his deep set blue eyes. "I see a convenient pattern, Lord Stark," he said with biting irony. "Let me guess, you haven't told your banners this either? Have you!?" he accused.

The actor shrugged. "Would the Umbers, the Karstarks, and many of my other far northern banners be here if they knew of the coming invasion?" he asked rhetorically.

The crowned stag scowled and threw up his hands in frustration. "You say these things as if you grant me a favor instead of giving me my right as your King."

'Well I am, thankless bastard.'

"… With no more … no more propriety than a serving wench passing around spirits at a tavern! I will not be mocked with fake coincidences, Lord Stark. Yes, my debt to you is vast in helping me secure my birthright. I do not dispute the miracle of your return. But I will not, I will not!" he bellowed in a near tantrum. "Be played! The Greyjoy tale I could have believed. But two? No. Where will it stop?!"

'You have no idea.'

"Do you seek to scare me with such woes that I, Stannis Baratheon, will cling to you? Like a frightened child clutching at his mother's skirts in a storm?! No, Ser!"

"You haven't asked me what would make the wildlings flee their lands beyond the Wall, your Grace." Sean answered calmly

"Others take you!" Stannis swore in abject frustration.

'They just might,' Sean thought with a shiver. He tried to clear his head, the situation with Stannis clearly becoming even trickier then he'd imagined it would. He hoped his relationship with his chosen King didn't completely fall in the shitter. 'Turns out the stiffed neck, touchy son of a bitch is paranoid as hell too; and not nearly susceptible enough to Ned's Old Gods charm.' Then that random thought struck him again. 'I wonder who David and DB will get to play this giant miffed arse next season?' Immediately the images of two of his 'Sharpe' comrades popped into his brain: Brian Cox and Pete Postlethwaite. 'Either'd be bloody brilliant! Well a little long in the tooth … and not damn near tall enough; course Mark wasn't exactly the perfect model of Robert Warhammer Baratheon, was he?' the actor frowned. 'I never imagined myself as Ned Stark either, really.' He smiled. 'But that's why I'm an actor; and a fucking fine one, ain't I?'

Stannis Baratheon took a deep breath, as if to keep from drowning, between each outraged filled word he spoke, "Why … are … wildlings … fleeing!?"

The sought for question returned Sean to the dangerous here and now with the implacable King, and he began speaking earnestly. "I would beg of your Grace to send a ship to Dragonstone. If I remember correctly your former seat has large quantities of dragonglass. I will pay whatever price you want to gather as much of it as possible and have it transported to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Within a year's time, the black brothers will have desperate need of it."

The only sound to escape the King's lips was that of his teeth grinding.

Sean pushed on. "After watching the city almost burn down in wildfire, there is no love and much hate for the pyromancers. I would, with your permission, offer a refuge in Winterfell to any of their guild willing to move there," the actor continued.

Stannis slammed his fist down on the table beside him then thrust himself out of his chair, towering over it and not Ned; the skin of his tight face now visibly purplish-red through his close black beard.

Sean ignored the violent outburst. "The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch has ordered one of his few knights to carry part of a mystery he encountered in December to King's Landing. Ser Alliser may arrive in a month or he may arrive in three. I am," and the actor's voice hesitated a bit, "unclear. But when he does, you will have a token, physical proof, of what drives the wildlings to escape the Land Beyond the Wall."

"Why?" the crowned stag croaked, voice near breaking from barely restrained fury.

"Why the wildlings or why do I ask so much of you, your Grace?" he responded.

"Why do you torment me so, Lord Stark!?" Stannis bellowed.

"A King is supposed to serve the realm, your Grace; not the other way around. Dark times, times not seen since the worst of the Age of Heroes, are coming to Westeros, whether you will it or not." Not Ned chuckled softly as he said, "Even your Red Priestess seems to know the realm cries out for an Azor Ahai, real or otherwise, to oppose the oncoming winter."

"Am I such a man?" the crowned stag spat.

The actor couldn't tell through the hostility whether the King's question was rhetorical, accusatory, or laced in doubt, so he answered with a calm, reassuring smile, "Yes, your Grace, you are. That is why I chose you to be my King. Not because your birth claim is better, though it is. Nor from any belief that you are Azor Ahai reborn. But simply because unlike the other slender reeds seeking to sit upon the Iron Throne and proclaim themselves King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm, you … you, Stannis Baratheon, are the only one who would be willing to sacrifice his life in defense of the realm."

Stannis bit his lower lip. "You expect me to die then?"

The actor laughed lightly again, 'Jesus, you're as bad to argue with as any one of my four ex-wives.' "No. I honestly hope you don't die, your Grace. Trust me, death is … well …" He cleared his throat, 'final,' he thought. "I have faith in your honor, your sense of duty, to do right by the realm, always." 'Well maybe not if you do decide to outlaw whores, but …'

The King took a steadying breath. "It has always been said you do your duty, Lord Stark; and no one would claim any less of me," he quickly amended. "If you had only told me duty and your price of 'peace' were what drove you to support me, I suppose I might have believed you," he said dubiously, "though I'd have trusted you more if you stated your price was to become my Hand or a marriage between one of your sons and my Shireen."

'Trusted me? Hell no. Understood, perhaps, if I were actually at all like most of the greedy hypocrites Westeros calls lords,' Sean thought.

"And while no man in my hearing has ever called you a liar," and Stannis' face began to clench and cloud over.

'But now you're going to politely call me one.'

"These claims, extraordinary claims; however, are …" and Stannis looked like he was sucking on a lemon, "difficult to believe. I know much of you, Lord Stark, but I do not know you."

'Whom do you trust, Stannis. People like Davos, who owe everything to you? I'm not about to let you chop my fingers off! Do you even trust your friends? Of course! You don't have friends, do you, you stupid, miserable sod!'

"Events will soon enough show whether your … visions … of the ironborn and the so called King-Beyond-the-Wall hold more truth than … Melisandre's flames. Until then, so long as you do your duty and continue to support me, Lord Stark, I will have no complaint with you," the crowned stag begrudgingly finished.

'How magnanimous of you, bloody wanker.' Sean bowed gracefully. "Your Grace, you have my obedience and loyalty." He stood back up. "I look forward to getting to know _you_ better in these next months, as we work wolf's paw in stag's hoof to cage the lion and carefully pluck the thorns from the deadly roses that Lord Renly clutches."

Stannis' lips might have split ever so slightly in a polite smile at not Ned's word play. "Your council will undoubtedly be useful, Lord Stark."

'Time to take the stag by the horns,' Sean thought. "'Tis Ned, your Grace. Or please, at least Lord Eddard when it's just the two of us."

The semi-smile immediately slipped into a half frown.

"You have likely thought that while I loved Robert, I was no friend of yours. There is truth in that; however, in fairness, our paths have seldom crossed, and then only briefly. Under such limiting … circumstances, how could we become friends? But circumstances … change, such as now. I would work to earn your friendship … Stannis," Sean dared broach.

The King blinked and then murmured from a face again contorted into a sour appearing disposition, "Though I think Kings are not meant to have friends, were that to occur … t'would not be … unpleasant."

"The first step of true friendship is trust," the actor continued. "I trust you, Stannis. I trust you to do right for the realm. I hope you discover that you can trust in me as well," 'don't push it any further,' "your Grace."

The crowned stag brought his hands together, gripping them so tightly the fingers shown pale. "We shall see … Lord Eddard" he proclaimed through gritted teeth.

Sean smiled at Stannis' use of his not Ned name, but in the back of his mind he hoped he hadn't just stuck his cock even further into the Westeros muck. George loved burying his characters in their own self made mistakes. His armor protected him on the battlefield. But only his wits, acting skill, and memory of five books could keep him safe off of it.


	24. Chapter 23 - Roose (II)

**Roose (II)**

By unspoken agreement the lordlings present ended the modest meal soon after the King and the Lord of Winterfell withdrew to their private council. Whilst eating the plain fare, Roose had sat between two utterly charmless companions and was now pleased to stand up and make his excuses to them. The one at first had appeared sociable enough, with a ready smile and eager to talk of women and battle and lands. However, when Roose had asked about the fiery heart badge that he noted on Ser Justin Massey's surcoat, as well as on many of the others from Dragonstone, the conversation promptly lost its appeal. He had found the knight's proud claim of being a Queen's Man and a follower of the King's pet Red Priestess disquieting, a fact he hid behind his usual wan smile. After politely asking a few clarifications of the Ser and his fellows' beliefs, the rest of Roose's meal had appropriately taken on the taste of ashes as his disquiet moved to outright alarm.

The bitter, aggressive man that had sat on the other side of the Lord of the Dreadfort was the unfortunately already well known Jonos Bracken. During the weeks long ride south from Darry, the Lord of Stone Hedge had buttock brokered his menagerie of daughters to every significant Northern Lord who was unmarried, widowed, or with an age appropriate (and sometimes not even that) son. Such entreaties had occurred to himself, the loud mouthed Greatjon, the blindly vengeful Lord Rickard, the barely noticeable Lord Medger, a pair of his Ryswell former goodbrothers, and the secret rearward passage fanciers like Lord Galbart and Ser Wendel. Even Blessed Ned had not been spared the hounding of a sweet Bracken wife for his crippled boy. But with the penurious excuse of his war ravaged seat and lands, Lord Jonos obstinately refused to offer more than a pittance of a dowry for any one of his five 'sweetlings'. Two days away from King's Landing, long since having grown tired of the southerner's pointless pursuit, Roose had purposefully ended what was to be their last, likely ever, amiable conversation with a softly worded observation, "_Surely with Lord Blackwood having six sons you merely need merge your house into his and there's still a boy left for the next daughter your lady wife births._"

Roose took his cup and went in search of his prospective goodbrother to be, Ser Stevron. Unsurprisingly, as most if not all of Blessed Ned's advice revealed itself near prescient, word had arrived that very morning from the Twins of ancient Walder Frey having agreed to the proposed dowry price of a bride's weight in silver. Alas for the Dreadfort the young pup's Frey bride, Roslin, had only full blooded brothers; no full blooded sister he could use to bind his house closer to the Starks, which would have been even more effective if as he suspected the young bride's knightly brothers Olyvar and Perwyn were being groomed by the Lord of Winterfell for either the Lady Sansa or Arya. With that course unavailable, he had already seriously considered asking for one of cagey old Ser Stevron's granddaughters. During the past few weeks Roose had grown to respect Walder's heir for his pragmatic counsel and pleasant natured humors, even when recommending the darker path forward. Yet the pale man could not forget other queer words whispered by Blessed Ned and at the oddest times; ramblings about mechanical inventions to make a stronger, wealthier, more powerful North. The Lord of the Dreadfort had a difficult time picturing what exactly these visions of dams, water powered spinning contraptions, and giant coal fired iron furnaces would look like, but he immediately knew they would require large numbers of smallfolk and plentiful coin to build. So in the end it would be as Blessed Ned had suggested, Fat Walda for his bride. "Goodbrother," he said with the hint of a smirk, having found his target amongst the growing mass of nobility milling about with drinks in hand.

"Goodbrother," Ser Stevron replied with an amused look on his craggy, grey bearded face. "As I said earlier, I shall finish my message that you've chosen Merret's daughter Walda for a wife and send it off to my father once these … festivities conclude and I can return to my quill."

"Do not let me stop you if our new King and the court he has brought with him do not impress you enough to remain a while," Roose said as softly as ever.

"Oh the King suits me fine," Ser Stevron replied evenly. "It says much about a man when not one of his banners love him, yet they still follow him into danger," the end of the sentence being said without any apparent irony in light that the deed of capturing the city had already been accomplished by their arrival.

"Greed can warp a man's sensibilities," he pointed out.

The heir to the Twins chortled in amusement and pointed to the loudly clad, silk wearing Lysene pirate merrily guzzling wine with a few of the senior captains from his sellsail fleet. "That'un spent most of his time at dinner boasting of all the new palaces and concubines he will buy with the gold the King has promised him. Fool doesn't know the Iron Throne's in debt up to the roots of his own dyed hair."

"A fact our slyer than he appears King undoubtedly knew when he hired this … Salladhor Saan, is it?"

"And neither did the fool have benefit of Lord Eddard the Returned's knacky counsel," the older man added, with only a whisper of sarcasm. "Two million dragons in debt," he said with disgust. The foundation of the Freys' might rested on the tolls they collected from the bridge in their house's sigil; they understood the value of coin.

"When the Red Keep falls, House Lannister and half the debt will go with it. The flow of gold from the Westerland mines will fill the King's coffers readily enough."

"Aye, but who will be his grace's castellan there directing that flow?" Ser Stevron asked. "Not you. Nor I. If that pretty boy Lancel survives the sack, he's the heir should the King wish it. And if not, Lord Edmure has the next in line stashed safely in Riverrun. A shame," he sighed.

"And your brother Emmon's sons? Where do they stand in line for Casterly Rock?" Roose suggested softly.

"Too far for convenient accidents to account for all of them any year soon." Then the aging but still robust knight laughed. "Not that he nor any of his seed have the stones to dare gainsay their lioness. I give them joy of fair Genna." And he lifted his glass in mocking salute to the formidable sister of Tywin Lannister.

"There's little enough joy in this room," said a vinegary looking old man who stood not far from the low pitched conversation between Frey and Bolton. "Would you care to share your jape?" he asked sourly.

"Why marriage, Lord Celtigar," Ser Stevron responded with a wry grin. "And the unexpected joy it brings to those not bound in it."

"Aye," the aged crab of Claw Isle agreed. "You were married before then," he added more as statement than question.

"Three times," Ser Stevron said with a smile. "Outlived them all."

"And what of you? Lord … Bolton, isn't it?" claimed the lord of a rocky crag sticking unimpressively out of the middle of the Narrow Sea with a tone of superior condescension.

The wan smile never left his lips. "Twice widowed," he whispered.

"And just contracted for a third," the Frey interjected good naturedly.

"Do you have an heir?" the Lord of Claw Isle snapped.

After a brief pause, Roose answered simply, "No."

"Then I won't call you a fool after all," the elderly man rasped. He pointed an arthritic finger towards the back of the large edifice. "I suppose that's what his Grace and Lord Stark are talking about now, a marriage. A marriage to cement the alliance between their two houses. Stark tried it before with King Robert …" he left the implication of how well that went hanging.

"His heir Robb is now married to my own sister," Stevron gloated.

"Half-sister I hear, or she'd be too old to breed," Lord Celtigar grumpily shot back. "Still, he's got other boys for his Grace's girl, doesn't he?"

"The next trueborn son …" and Roose's statement elicited almost a cackle from Claw Isle at the implication of bastards "is a cripple. He fell and no longer feels or uses his legs."

"Well then he'd be 'the' match for Shireen." The elderly man waved a wrinkled, splotched, twisted hand in front of his face. "He wouldn't need to worry about dipping his quill in her inkpot. The pitiful girl survived greyscale don't you know. Frightful as a demon from the Seven Hells." He cleared his throat, perhaps nervous that he'd unwisely crossed a boundary. "Still a sweet tempered child none the less. But if his Grace and the Queen don't ever spawn again, that might leave her as heir, IF we're lucky enough to kill off Lord Renly and all those damned Tyrells he's supposedly bringing with him on the Roseroad."

"To marry a future Queen, some men might be willing to shut their eyes to even greyscale before dipping their quill," the patient heir of the Twins alleged.

"Not me," Lord Celtigar harrumphed. "At my age I can barely piss a solid stream from my quill, let alone bother making it stiff enough to write with. Now where are the jakes?" he demanded, apparently motivated by the turn in conversation to give his bladder and bits a go.

The sour lord's insightful words left much for Roose to contemplate and he used the amused Stevron's departure to act as guide to the elderly, cantankerous, suddenly incontinent Crab Lord to ponder them. A marriage of alliance between the two great houses did make sense. Wasn't he making such an alliance, as much for the show of strength joining with the fast rising Freys reflected on him as for the silver coin that would end up in the chests of the Dreadfort's treasury? The pale man frowned. If those two did unite, a cripple and a monster would certainly conceive no children. Even a hale man and a greyscale struck girl would likely not conceive either. Roose couldn't recollect whether Stannis' queen had had even so much as a miscarriage in the ten or so years since their sole child's birth. He would surreptitiously ask around. If the King never sired a son, that left Lord Renly, childless though recently married to the Tyrell maiden, and most importantly seeking through force of arms the crown for himself, as the true heir, should his rebellion die yet he live. And if Renly didn't survive his risky play in the game of thrones or make generous amends with his brother should he lose, then the Kingdom would inevitably dissolve yet again into chaos upon Stannis' death. So in ten or twenty or thirty years the ever honorable House Stark would inevitably drag the North into yet another southern war. The thought of it discomforted him, for he was near a decade older than the King; who would be managing the crisis for the Dreadfort then?

* * *

While he could raise his voice when necessary, by predilection Roose spoke softly. He liked his personal space much as he did the lands of the Dreadfort, quiet and peaceful. Invariably, as the lord of a mighty house, none on his demesne dared blatantly contravene his requirements. Only with other lords did he permit himself to suffer, though in the main his northern noble brethren respected his oddity well enough though it engendered him few allies and fewer friends amongst them. The Riverlanders were learning of his … quirks, while these brine crusted sea lordlings knew naught of it. To his satisfaction in the crowded, loud quarters the diners had dispersed to his lack of shouting appeared to render him near invisible to some.

"We must have it before she comes," the pockmarked face said stridently.

"We will, his Grace will grant this boon to his Queen and to his Lady," said the tall one confidently, clutching tightly a rolled up parchment in his fist.

"Yes," readily agreed the lickspittle brown teeth hovering close to the tall one. "T'will throw down the memory of the Dragons and venerate the return of Azor Ahai," he simpered.

"And where will the gold come from to build her temple?" cautioned Ser Justin.

"Do you doubt the Lady?" the tall one challenged.

"No one doubts the Lady," the sleeping lion responded with indignation. All the gathered heads bobbed in agreement.

"When the first flames rise from atop Rhaenys' hill, the smallfolk will desert the Seven for the truth that shines in the night. The gold and silver will flow," assured the only one dressed more as a lordling than a hedge knight.

"Lord Sweet preaches the truth," the tall one said with utter certainty.

"And thus who refuse to see R'hllor's light will suffer for their sins," snarled pockmark evidently eager for blood.

Those last words were perhaps even too public for the other fanatics and their eyes began to cast about for who might have over heard. Roose silently slipped around a different gaggle and exited the room, no longer interested in waiting for Ser Stevron's return. Their seeming conspiracy had confirmed his earlier worry about the so called Queen's Men. The red gold circlet with flames that the King had crowned himself with now made sense. Personally, he could care less whom or what Stannis Baratheon worshipped in private: the Seven, the Old Gods, this Red God, the Drowned God, even the Others for that matter. But that the new Lord of the Seven Kingdoms appeared beholden to a god not of Westeros sat ill with the Lord of the Dreadfort.

Roose wisely ruled his own demesne with fear and respect, not terror and madness. A cowed people knew their place in the order of the things, keeping the land orderly and productive. A terrorized people had little incentive to remain quiet. A noisy, disruptive rabble disturbed the peace of the land and threatened to overturn their betters, their chiefs, lordlings, and lords. Such was never to be countenanced in case the Bolton's would find themselves the flayed and not the flayer.

And now the King, if he in fact proved not to worship the Seven, would strike terror into too many places within his realm. Soon enough septons, and septas too, in the South would speak fervently to their flock of their false King's heresy, his outright apostasy, and then the sheep would add their angry bleats to the noise. No, this was not a wise course at all. The crown had survived a religious war before, when the Targaryens had crushed the Faith Militant. Would Stannis prove himself another Maegor, and make the rivers run red, R'hllor red, with blood? The Stag did not have the Black Dread, mighty Balerion, to set upon foes, but he did have the Direwolf. Or did the Direwolf have the Stag? Roose unhappily shook his head.

For all of Blessed Ned's unpredictability and that he seemed to barely tolerate Roose's presence, the man acted more pragmatic than Stolid Ned ever had. He would surely see the problem with the King and Queen's misguided devotion were he made aware of it. Roose stopped in his tracks, but surely Blessed Ned must have seen this in his 'visions.' The man was too … prophetic about … everything. If his liege knew, but didn't care, then why? Disturbing nameless possibilities fluttered just out of the pale man's reach. Frustrated after some moments he chose to ignore those mental grumkins. Now if his liege knew and did care, then what was his plan? He started walking again, his mind racing from possibility to possibility. Thoughts of 'marriage,' 'Queen's Men,' 'alliance,' and 'heir' kept appearing.

He found himself at the arched entrance from the building's courtyard onto a cobblestone street when he smiled half smugly, half viciously. The fanatics called themselves the 'Queen's Men,' not the 'King's Men;' so the bloody Red God was not yet Stannis' passion as it was his wife's. A jug eared shrew of a wife unable to bare the King an heir. A Queen who's religious allies would someday threaten the peace of the realm. He laughed softly, utterly delighted with his insight. There would be no announcement on the morrow of a marriage alliance between House Baratheon and House Stark. In fact Blessed Ned was far too clever to let the King broach the idea even if Stannnis wished it. His liege's course was more utterly un-Stark like than even his sensible and dishonorable command to execute the prisoners at the Green Fork. Selyse Baratheon was to die and when broken sympathetic little Sansa healed and flowered, she would become the next Queen. "Genius," he whispered with sheer envy.

He suddenly realized that the thought of all this cleverly planned treachery had raised his humors. He had been intending to return to Lord Littlefinger's mansion and continue perusing the secret ledgers discovered there. A mistake of Lord Stark's not trusting him and his banners to be part of the initial assault on the city and shifting them over to support the fall of the Dragon Gate. Steelshanks had led several hundred of his men-at-arms straight to the Master of Coin's manor tucked in amongst the high class whorehouses at the foot of Rhaenys' hill. Like a loyal banner, the Lord of the Dreadfort had not stinted in promptly forwarding the dead traitor's accounts to the Lord of Winterfell, but he had not forwarded them all; there was gold and silver to be secretly gleaned from even a small fraction of Baelish's sprawling jumbled dealings. Now, now he would satisfy himself with his own whore. If Fat Walda upon her arrival proved to be as unenthusiastic in the bed chamber as his last two wives, he intended to keep this whore on; her little squeals and whispered endearments were quite endearing somehow. He would sate his lust this night on her. And in the morning, after a thorough leeching, he would extend his mind on how best to use Blessed Ned's devious plan for his own gain.


	25. Chapter 24 - Robb (III)

**Robb (III)**

The honorable young warrior strode confidently forward through the twisting alleys of King's Landing as the sun slowly set to the west, his Old Gods blessed lord father on one side and his awe inspiring brother Grey Wind to the other. Behind him lay an afternoon spent chatting amongst his comrades in arms as well as getting to know the salty banners of the new King. Those were an odd lot, a mixture of simple seeming sea lordlings, white blonde Targaryen dragonseeds, fiery heart badge wearing Queen's Men, and Free Cities sellsails. Each group apparently only grudgingly able to talk to each other but all eager to strike up a conversation with Lord Stark's son about storming the Red Keep, slaying the Lannisters, and using the victory to benefit themselves, each group in its own way. Being one of those to know that a secret passage had already been discovered into the Lion's den, he'd smugly felt superior, but nevertheless kept as quiet as a Silent Sister about it. And now ahead, a glass of wine, his pretty wife, and a warm snug bed lay a wait. 'What more could a man want?' he asked himself. Still, something kept niggling at him; an irritation demanding to be itched.

Finally, after several more minutes of walking in relatively sparse talk with his father, who Robb observed clearly had much on his mind, 'and why wouldn't he, stuck alone all that time with that cantankerous boor;' his youthful impatience go the best of him. "His Grace does not seem to care for me," he whispered, so that the eight grey clad, wolf's head badged Winterfell guardsmen escorting them back to their lodgings could not hear him publicly criticize the ungrateful King.

His father's tired and rapidly aging face grimaced briefly before returning to its usual stoic demeanor. "His Grace is a complicated man; living in even more complicated times," his father answered coolly, not bothering to much lower his voice.

'It'd have been a lot less complicated if you'd become King of the North, father,' Robb thought; an opinion he dared not say aloud, remembering the epic rant he and all 'his' lords had received from the snarling 'Old' Wolf that first evening in modest Castle Darry's cramped great hall.

* * *

"_Sers, lords, northmen, lend me your ears! I come to bury the 'King of the North,' not to praise him. The treachery that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones. "How now, you secret, black, and midnight rogues! What is't you did? By the pricking of your honor, something wicked this way has come! This course, which has made a tomb of your virtue and honor, is but a walking shadow; a 'King of the North' that struts and frets his honor upon the game of thrones, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by a fool, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The Old Gods have given each of you a face, and you made yourselves another! Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful."_

"_If you Sers do not reverse your course, this foul deed shall smell above the earth, with carrion men, groaning for burial. There is a tide, a veritable flood, in the affairs of men, which taken with honor leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of our life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. Will we take the current as dutiful northmen and lords of the Trident, or lose ourselves in the swell of despair and the tempest of false pride?"_

"_So let it us bury this title, 'The King of the North.' An idea born of desperation and dark times, but shown ill-conceived in the light of day. To thy real King be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. Come with me and join the true King; for the golden age is before us, not behind. Hail Stannis!"_

"_Stannis," a few shouted._

"_Who will join me!?"_

"_Stannis," more shouted._

"_Who is our King!?"_

"_Stannis!" the entire hall yelled back more or less in unison, if not in utter enthusiasm, though the rare speech had clearly moved many._

* * *

Robb could admit to himself that the loss of his title and the end of his reign had stung his pride sorely. And Stannis' dismissive behavior now added salt to the wound. Though the arisen Lord of Winterfell's very public and very brutal condemnation of his royal ascent had cut the worst, even if in private his father had assured him that blame for the now upended scheme lay not with him but with the loudmouthed Greatjon and the other fickle great lords; '_a lesson there for you, son_' he'd said sternly.

Still, he knew he'd done well as these fickle lords liege; calling and taming his banners (some of whom still frightened him a bit), winning at the Whispering Woods, relieving Riverrun, and rallying the Riverland lords to his side. However, the Young Wolf wouldn't deny that the heavy responsibility of kingship had frequently left a queasy feeling churning in his guts. 'I'd have made a fine King; Mother and Father taught me well,' he reassured himself. But married to both those thoughts was the memory of the enormous relief, the burden lifting off his shoulders, when he first again spied his confident, strong father. 'I'll make a find Lord too, when the time came; Old Gods let it be many years,' he prayed.

"Ahem!"

He looked over and caught his lord father staring at him. Robb promptly snapped out of his ruminations, red blooming on his cheeks. "My lord?"

"Give the King time, Robb. You've already proven yourself a knacky general, lad. Soon enough events will allow his Grace to judge your loyalty with his own eyes. He spent most of Robert's reign trying his best to serve a broken realm in this pit of lies that others call King's Landing. Forgive his Grace if the experience has left so bitter that he finds talk of honor and promises mere words; one day your actions will speak louder to him."

"Yes, father," Robb whispered. 'But no one's acted more loyal to him than you, and the sour fart doesn't seem to like or trust you much either; even less so when you came out of your meeting. Why won't you tell me what you talked about?' He was a man now with the battle scars to prove it and resented the times he felt himself still treated as a child.

* * *

"Ned," his mother called happily.

"Robb!" Roslin squealed delightfully.

Immediately, warm feelings swamped him. "Sweetling!" he cried back. He hadn't seen his love since early morning, and now his heart beat faster as she rushed her slender body into his arms. Something else within him beat faster too as he looked forward to quickly completing his family obligations here in the apartment's main salon and taking his bride back to their cozy bedroom so they might perform more intimate obligations.

"Yuck!" Arya barked, watching the pair embrace. She was sitting in a corner, sharpening her Needle with a whetstone; and while her eyes left the deadly sharp blade, her steady measured strokes over the slender steel never wavered.

Though fully engaged savoring Roslin's feel, scent, and promise of much more, the young man still took a moment to stick his tongue out at his youngest sister.

His mother snorted in amusement, though he wasn't sure whether it was because of his childish display or that Grey Wind was rubbing his furry snout between their legs looking for his share of affection.

"What?" Roslin murmured in the crook of his neck where her chin rested.

"Nothing, dear heart," he whispered back tenderly.

Regardless of whether his words soothed her or not, his lady wife slipped out of his embrace, but kept a grip on one hand. "Come, Robb, I've been working with my goodsister and Lady Jeyne on a new shirt for you to wear to the King's coronation."

Now it was the Young Wolf's time to snort his amusement. "Didn't you know, Roslin; Stannis has already crowned himself."

"Oh pooh," his sweet wife spouted. "We heard. That hardly counts," she scoffed.

"I see gossip still flies faster than Raven wings," his father chuckled.

"Do you think the King would forgo having a grand ceremony before the Iron Throne where all the lords in their finest pledge him their fealty?" his mother asked with perfect reasonability. "Especially once his queenly wife, her Grace Selyse, arrives?"

Knowing the benefits of a feigned retreat in the presence of a flanking attack, Robb held his tongue as to what he thought Stannis 'prickly arse' Baratheon would or would not do. 'I wonder what kind of hag the Queen is, if he's only ever gotten one child on her,' he thought. 'Or is his cock as temperamental a beast as his prickly arse?'

"Now go with Roslin," his mother cajoled, most likely so she could have a few private whispers with father, "and see what she's embroidering with Sansa and dear Jeyne."

Robb plastered on a smile and let his adorable lady wife lead him to the other corner, opposite Arya, of the candle lit room, where the pair of tortured girls, best friends since childhood, currently hid from the world. A snow white silk tunic lay draped over their laps and the intricate outline of a direwolf's head was taking shape on it.

"Hello Sansa," he said gently; undoubtedly over emphasizing the kindness, and thus drawing unnecessary attention to them. 'Damn you Joffrey, when will I act naturally again with my own sister,' he swore to himself. "Hope you haven't stabbed … uh jabbed yourself too badly on my account with all this fine stitch work," Robb japed with false cheer.

Roslin furtively stepped on his foot at the verbal blunder.

What little color glimmered in Sansa's blue eyes flickered out. And she tucked her chin down into her neck, trying to hide her disfigured face and broken soul.

'At least she didn't break down crying like she would've just two days ago,' he thought, looking for any positive from the situation. Then the Young Wolf gasped. "That's … amazing! Where did you get that yellow? It practically glows!" He grinned and turned towards Jeyne's almost equally vacant face. "I swear I'm looking right into Grey Wind's eyes!" he said with enthusiasm, edging closer to the girl. "May I?" he asked, hand outstretched to the tunic.

Jeyne smiled shyly and lifted the partially embroidered shirt up to him. Robb took it from her, their fingers lightly touching for the barest instant, and then Jeyne's hands promptly crashed back into her lap; arms quivering in fear at memory of contact with some other, some lascivious, evil man's flesh.

He'd suspected more than once through the years that Jeyne carried a torch for him. Looking at the sunken eyes in her once lively face, he felt pity for the still pretty but rape broken girl. No matter what his father swore, no reputable house would willingly join even a third or fourth son to such damaged goods. He felt Roslin gently squeeze his fingers and he turned to look into her big brown eyes. 'Well, many'd say ill of the Freys too. I suppose there's hope for her.' "Thank you ladies, this is a gift beyond words," he said with an exaggerated smile, suddenly feeling all false again. "I shall wear it proudly not only on King Stannis' 'true' coronation, but any time I attend court in the throne room."

Roslin at least appreciated his sentiments and squeezed his hand encouragingly yet again. An urgency swept over him. The Young Wolf could hardly wait another moment to cover her lithe body in hot kisses and feel her sweaty, naked skin plastered against his. "Have you eaten," he whispered to her.

She nodded, an understanding playful smile revealing the tiny, adorable gap in her two front teeth.

The Young Wolf felt the beginning of a cock stand. "If you will kindly excuse us, dear family, but it has been a rather long day, and I feel like retiring for the night."

Arya snorted. "I know what you want to retire for," she muttered under her breath from her own corner of the room, away from Sansa and Jeyne.

"Ahem."

Robb looked at his father, who'd cleared his throat. "Yes?" he inquired, noting with concern the paleness and small sheen of sweat on the Old Wolf's face.

"I would have private words with you and your lady mother, Robb. In my chamber," his father said gravely.

'Old Gods damn you, Stannis Baratheon. What did you say to my father today!' he raged in side. "Of course, father," he promptly replied, letting go of Roslin's hand and not even noticing his erection shrivel up.

* * *

Grey Wind refused to enter the room. He sternly pointed a hand through the open door into his parent's bed chamber. The direwolf let out a low growl expressing a difference of opinion. "Grey Wind," he complained. His pack mate spun half around, aiming his huge body down the hall back towards the common room; but keeping his head turned to keep questioning yellow eyes at Robb. "Now," he commanded. The beast almost whimpered, a sound the Young Wolf hadn't heard Grey Wind make since he played hard with his five litter mates as a pup. "Come," he growled. The direwolf took a tentative further step away. "Stupid dog," he murmured in frustration, knowing he was about to give up on this battle of wills. From experience, Robb knew that making his four legged brother do something he didn't want to usually wasn't worth the trouble. "Go on then. Find Roslin, Grey Wind. Find Roslin."

The beast's tail instantly popped up in evident relief and off he trotted.

'You may only tolerate father now,' the Young Wolf thought, 'but at least you approve the wife he choose for me.' Robb smiled. He approved of his father's choice too. He still couldn't understand how such an angelic creature could have been born out of anything that spurted from Walder Frey's bitter shriveled old cock.

He entered the room to find mother seated delicately on an overstuffed settee that threatened to swallow her and his father standing by a window back to him, glass of wine in hand, staring out into the night's sky. "What did the King tell you, father?" he demanded angrily.

"It's very pretty," his father muttered, ignoring his question if he even heard it.

"Father?" Robb asked, quite confused.

"Ned?" his mother asked.

"The Red Comet," he answered, still gazing through the window. "The Dragon's Tail. The Red Messenger. The Sword that Slays the Seasons. The Bleeding Star." His Father took a long gulp of the wine.

As alarms erupted in his head at his father's suddenly odd, almost melancholy tone, thoughts of Stannis slipped out of it, though he suspected the prickly arse was the cause for his father's change in mood. "It's an omen," Robb responded hesitantly, not knowing what to say.

The Old Wolf laughed, back still turned. "It's a gigantic ball of ice and rubble with a high ferrous content flying through the void that heats up as it passes near the sun and pushes out a cloud of iron colored gas. But an omen of what?" he concluded.

"Your return," his lady mother proclaimed proudly, though her clearly worried eyes locked on to her son's.

"The fall of the Lannisters," the Young Wolf said fiercely, trying to will the gathering storm clouds away. The indistinct clarion cry in his mind warped and took on the eerie tune his anxious, drunken father had sung the night before Sansa's return: '_On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at_ …'

"That, and much more too," his lord father stated darkly.

The hackles raised on the back of Robb's neck. His father had changed since his return from … 'Well, wherever it was he returned from," the young man thought. And while his father at first could hardly remember the names and faces of the men and banners who'd served him all of Robb's sixteen years, his father, the Old Wolf and wasn't his face older and more lined than before, knew things, important things, which no single man could ever possibly have discovered. His father had held this knowledge of the Old Gods close. 'Perhaps now, at last?' Robb cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tell us, father," he asked.

The Old Wolf slowly turned away from the window, his body no longer blocking the faint glow of red trickling through the dark glass. He stared a moment at Robb. He stared a moment at Robb's mother.

Robb shivered, he swore his father's icy grey eyes faded away to a flinty green while he held their gazes, weighing their souls, judging whether they were worthy or not of his blessed confidences.

"You thought it unfair of me to have left Theon behind in Riverrun," his father said, ending the stare and the seemingly prolonged silence. He took another sip of wine.

The bald, unexpected statement and the grey returning to the Old Wolf's eyes struck Robb like a blow. He glanced nervously over at his mother. Her face revealed surprise too. "Uhm, yes father. Theon … is my friend." He started to feel confident in his reply. "Theon fought beside me in the Whispering Woods and at Riverrun too. He deserves a place of honor here with us, not practically locked up in grandfather's keep, watching how moldy old Utherydes stewards."

"Balon Greyjoy is calling his longships. The ironborn intend to attack the North."

Robb sucked in a breath. His mother gasped audibly.

"Tell no one," the Old Wolf commanded sternly. "We cannot afford to have our banners return North until Renly and the Tyrells are tamed or defeated."

A painful fire started to grow in Robb's belly. "How long have you known?" he asked in wonder.

"Since I woke up in White Harbor," he answered softly, then swirled his glass before taking another long draught.

"But we have Theon," his mother said with confusion. "Surely his father won't risk …"

"Balon Greyjoy is mad," the Old Wolf cut in harshly. "And he wants revenge against me from his last rebellion. Besides, he thinks Theon half wolf already."

"Ha!" Robb barked with harsh irony. He well remembered the many years his father kept a desperate for attention Theon at arm's length. Then a new, terrible thought struck him. "You told Stannis already! Didn't you?!" he accused angrily, bitter that his father had confided in that … that … self-righteous … ungrateful … King-come-lately.

"That, and much more, son," his father answered.

The Young Wolf childishly stomped a foot, feeling betrayed, belittled.

"Robb!" his mother cautioned him.

"Mother, why?!" he asked plaintively.

She swallowed. "Think like a war leader, Robb. Think like a great lord. Where is our fleet?" She jabbed a finger vaguely in the direction of the Blackwater. "Our fleet lies there and its admiral's name is Stannis Baratheon."

Now it was Robb's turn to swallow. Swallow hard.

"My lord husband," his mother continued. "Does the Kraken only intend to ensnare wolves?" she asked with a slight tremor.

His father cracked a sardonic grin. "Thankfully no. He does mean to try and make an Iron Kingdom out of part of the North by taking Moat Cailin and the western seats, but most of his might will be sent against the richer plunder in the Westerlands and the Reach."

Possibilities crackled inside the Young Wolf's clever brain, dousing, for the time being, the anger in his heart. "Lord Helman, he has near half a thousand men at the Twins. They could go guard Moat Cailin."

His father's wry grin started to turn into an actual smile. "Exactly. What else?" he prodded.

"Stafford Lannister is training a new army near Lannisport. He won't dare move against us once word reaches him of longships off the Westerlands' coast."

"And?"

"If … if the ironborn come soon enough, the Tyrells will need to shift much of their strength back south." His voice brightened. "We could even send some sort of secret, believable warnings to their banners right now, especially the Redwynes."

His mother practically beamed at him. "Cleverly thought, my son." Then her face turned serious and she addressed her lordly husband. "But there's worse, isn't there Ned? More than just the ironborn or Renly and the Tyrells?"

His father sighed heavily, "Yes," and took another mouth of wine. "Lord Commander Mormont has taken most of his best men on a great ranging beyond the Wall. A new king has arisen among the wildlings, uniting them, and is bringing them south; all one hundred thousand of them. Mormont hopes to break Mance Rayder's army," he said sadly.

The excitement and outrage in his belly collapsed into cold ashes. "Jon," he whispered.

His mother frowned at mention of his bastard brother.

"He's gone on the ranging," the Old Wolf confirmed. And again the man's eyes fluttered between grey and green as he seemed to stare up at the ceiling or into a private vision. "He … should live. More likely than old Mormont."

Robb gulped. "Tell no one?" he asked softly.

"Of course," his father snorted. "The Umbers, the Karstarks, and many many others would leave the instant they heard so many wildlings threaten to swamp the Wall and storm their homes."

Robb and his mother both nodded agreement.

"Worse," the Old Wolf continued, "We are going to have to convince our banners to let the Free Folks live among us in the North."

"What!?" Robb spluttered in outrage.

"Ned, you can't be serious," his wife gasped, even a southerner understood the unending enmity between the so called 'free folks' and the Houses of the North.

"Yes. Yes, I'm deadly serious," the Old Wolf snarled. He swung back towards the window and pointed at it. "Out there, the Red Messenger, the Dragon's Tail. Do you know what it's an omen of? Do you?! I'll tell you. The return of magic. The return of the Others."

Robb's hackles returned at mention of the Ancient Enemy. He felt ice form in his blood. "No. no, it can't be," he whispered; but his father would never ever make such a claim without dead certainty.

His father turned back around, face pale as snow. "It is," he said in a husky voice. A flicker of a smile whispered over his lips. "Fear of the Others and the undead wights they animate is driving Mance Rayder and the wildlings to pass south of the Wall. The magic of the Wall stops the Others, but not their wights, from entering the North. Unfortunately the King-beyond-the-Wall has discovered a magic to collapse the Wall, and he'll use it unless they're let through."

"It can't be true," his stunned mother murmured. "It can't possibly be true. No, no it can't."

"Despite our hate for them Cat, do we dare risk letting the Wall fall? The North is vast. There's room enough and more for them. It won't be easy." He laughed at his own understatement. "Few are the lords they willingly bow to, and only those who've earned it by their strength."

His mother promptly uttered, "Greatjon."

His father nodded. "If he'll take them, I imagine they'll have little problem bowing to him, or to Lord Rickard either. Even so, it definitely won't be easy," he repeated. "At least there's time to get ready." The Lord of Winterfell began ticking off fingers as if counting to himself. "Things move slowly, very slowly in that frozen vastness beyond the Wall," he whispered as if he were Roose Bolton. "Seven, maybe eight months for Mance to arrive if the boo … visions hold true. Longer before the Others ... do …" the whisper died out.

Robb cleared his throat, trying not to sound like a drowning man hacking up his lungs. "Can the Others be fought?"

"With Valyrian steel, wildfire, or dragonglass, an Other may be killed," the Old Wolf announced, though with a hint of doubt. His father now cleared his throat. "The King will allow us to take pyromancers back North after Renly is dealt with. And in a few days he will let a small fleet of ships depart here for Dragonstone. The tunnels beneath his castle have a wealth of dragonglass. Arrowheads and small blades can be shaped out of the obsidian. One boat will head for Eastwatch-by-the-sea, another to White Harbor, and the third back here to King's Landing." As his father described the effort to get the Other slaying rock off of Dragonstone, an enigmatic, but definitely smug, look overtook his face, which he eventually hid behind another sip of wine.

"I could use a glass too," his mother announced. "Robb, would you?" she asked.

He nodded and stepped over to the table where the open bottle and several glasses lay.

His father walked up next to him and set his now empty glass down. "Fill mine too, if you please … son."

Robb nodded and poured. Finished, he handed the first glass to his mother. Father had already picked his up, and the Young Wolf then did likewise. The rim poised at his lips, the aroma of an Arbor Red, admittedly from a bad year, second pressing, or an inferior vineyard, he felt the need to say something, anything. "Winter is coming," he toasted and at last let the grape nectar slide over his palate.

When he lowered the glass, Robb found the Old Wolf gazing at him And for the third time that night he got the eerie sensation that his father's eyes were more green than grey.

"Do you dream as Grey Wind, Robb?" his father suddenly asked.


	26. Chapter 25 - Catelyn (II)

**Catelyn (II)**

"Do you dream as Grey Wind, Robb?" Ned asked oddly, his voice soft and searching.

'What?' Catelyn thought, her mind still reeling from her husband's frightful, bone chilling unimaginable revelations.

Robb looked befuddled too, crinkling his nose and eyebrows towards each other. "Well … I guess I must; sure, I dream of Grey Wind."

"No, you misunderstand me son. Do you dream _AS IF_ you were Grey Wind?" Ned repeated with additional emphasis.

'What is Ned talking about?' she wondered with irritation. 'Your Old Gods showed you the Others real, and you ask about dreams?' Catelyn's unease and fear grew. Her already sour stomach gurgled. Acidic bile threatened to creep up her throat.

As if the evening's conversation couldn't have been weirder or more frightening already, the question seemed to strike a particular nerve with Robb. He unconsciously shuffled his feet. His eyes wandered, as if reliving a memory. "I … I don't … I don't understand, father," he stuttered in reply, clearly disturbed.

Ned continued, his cool grey eyes staring straight into Robb's, trapping him with his gaze. "In Winterfell, or on your ride to Riverrun, or during the march here, have you had dreams where you ran on four legs and hunted for prey? Dreams where the smells and sounds of the forest and the night are brighter, more real than when you're awake?"

Her son stood stunned, his face obviously showing that he must have experienced something akin to his father's words already.

Cat swallowed up bile into her mouth, she tried to choke it back down, but the bitter, harsh residue clung to the flesh of her checks, stuck to her tongue, permeated her saliva, drowned her taste buds. She thought she might vomit.

"And then, when you catch the scent of a rabbit or a deer, does your pulse race with excitement and you run faster, until you catch the beast and revel in the taste of it's warm fresh blood?" Her lord husband grimly, brutally, remorselessly drove onward.

"Father … ?" Robb said uncertainly.

"Ned!" Catelyn snapped.

"Do you?" he demanded. "Do you?!"

Robb pushed his hands through the scarce red beard of his cheeks and through the thick hair on the sides of his head. "Yes!" he shouted. Then, in a quieter, much quieter voice, "Yes, yes I do. How? How do you know?"

"Ned?" Catelyn wailed.

"Jon has those dreams. Maybe Rickon too. Bran definitely has them, and more. But they're not dreams, son. They're not."

"No no no no no no no no no," Catelyn repeated. "Not my babies. No, not my babies. This is all too much, damn you! All too much!" She felt faint the more she yelled.

Dazed, Robb shook his head from side to side. "I'm not a warg. I'm not a warg," he chanted, overcome by the unspoken accusation thrust at him by his very own father.

A kind smile at last appeared on her husband's cold northern face. "It's alright." He stepped forward and tried to take Robb by the arms but the boy jerked away from his father.

"Don't touch me!" Robb shouted. He stepped back once, twice. "Don't!"

"It's a gift son. A gift of the Old Gods," he said gently.

"No! Not my children! Maybe you're damned bastard, but not my children!" Unable to stand anymore Catelyn sat down and began to cry.

"Catelyn, it's a gift," Ned insisted, not taking his eyes off his son. "Robb you aren't any different now than the day you were born. You were born with the skills to be a fine warrior, a great war leader; but those skills would have become nothing if you hadn't trained everyday with Ser Rodrick. Living with Grey Wind is only bringing out these talents you didn't know you had. Would your rather you never found those pups and left them to die?"

"Damns those wolves!" Catelyn swore. "Damn you Eddard Stark for letting my children bring them home! To pervert them! I … I …" Weakness filled her body. She slipped out of the chair and dropped to the floor where she wretched up her sparse dinner.

His mother's distress instantly brought Robb out of his shock and he scrambled to squat down beside her before Ned could arrive, leaving him to hover about the pair. He softly laid a hand on his mother's torment wracked form. "No, mother, don't say that. Bran … that assassin would have killed him, and you! If it weren't for Summer. You'd … You'd" and the boy started weeping as well and leaned forward to rest his tear stained face in her hair. "You'd have died. Please don't say this, don't think this about me, about Bran or Rickon, about our wolves. Please," he begged like the small child he'd once been. "Please."

Emotions and memories swept through Cat in a whirlwind. A seemingly endless cycle of cherished things taken away: Mother, Brandon, Riverrun, Bran, Ned, Sansa and Arya. And all of them replaced by the needs of hard, unyielding duty: a child acting the mistress to her widower father's castle, a maiden marrying a stranger in the midst of a rebellion and then waiting through a pregnancy and birth for word of this foreign husband's survival, a young lady learning to live in the bleak North while mistressing a household that included that same husband's own bastard son, a mother sitting bedside day and night as her child strove to live through murderous deeds and then toiling to see justice done, a husband and daughters stolen from her so forced to try and guide her eldest son, now a man, on the near impossible course between upholding honor and saving the family. And now, after the impossible had been accomplished, her own children turn out to be monsters. 'Too much. Too much,' she thought feebly, weary beyond all keen.

Finally she summoned enough strength to challenge her supposed savior, her tormentor. She wriggled a shoulder. Robb took the hint and slowly eased off of her. Without his weight pressing her down, Catelyn pushed an arm beneath her to slowly rise above the foul smelling filth she'd splattered on the rug. Still wobbly, her blue eyes stared as best they could at the cold, distant figure above her. She went to speak, but found her vocal chords strained and layered with the bilious after taste of her purging. She spat to clear her mouth. "Why, Ned?" she whispered. "Why now? Why tell us at all? What of Sansa? And Arya?"

The Lord of Winterfell shrugged his shoulders, seemingly none too concerned. "Lady is dead and Nymeria wild, roaming the Riverlands. Maybe they have the skill? Maybe they don't? The Old Gods haven't shown me. And without a direwolf for either of them to bond with, I don't think we'll ever know."

Catelyn hated the Old Gods; hated them with all the great power her love of family brought her. They were capricious gods. They'd returned her husband, or half of him. More considerate, more openly passionate, yes; but more infuriating and mysterious than ever too: what he knew, what he no longer remembered. 'Others take them,' she thought, then stifled a terrified sob at the implication of what she said if Ned's visions were true. "Why now," she whispered desperately.

"Because of this last secret I've kept," Ned announced.

Catelyn sensed Robb beside her go utterly still.

"Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of the Mad King, she's been wandering the last year with a horde in the Dothraki Sea."

"Yes?" her son asked in a hushed voice.

"She's hatched three dragons," her husband announced calmly.

No. This was too much. The world spun. Catelyn's stomach rebelled on her again.

"Grab her," she heard Ned yell.

When she came back to herself the room was dark and she felt a soft mattress beneath her and a warm blanket atop her; and quiet voices came from the shadows lurking near the window reflecting, distorting the red hue of the comet blazing through the night.

"You think I could control a dragon, like Bran will?"

"Certainly not now. Maybe not ever. You don't have the skill, Robb. Not yet at least. Bran neither. I don't think he's yet realized … the truth of his abilities. Until then, he won't know to train with Summer."

"How … uhm … how should I start … with Grey Wind?"

"I wish I knew. Hopefully it will just come to you. Until then, let's pray that Daenerys Targaryen stays in Essos so we never have to find out if warging a dragon works."

Their soft voices slowly faded out as she again slipped towards unconsciousness. 'Oh Bran. Oh Robb. My babies. The Long Winter truly is coming.'

* * *

She lay curled up on the edge of the bed. The first light of dawn was sneaking in the window. The yellow sunlight felt more real, truer than the crimson glow from the Red Comet. The Red Comet! Memories of the night before flooded her. Her stomach lurched on her, but bless the Mother she fought down the dry heaves. She tossed and turned. Her feet nudged a supine form lying on the far side from her.

Ned rolled over, facing her, grey eyes slowly blinking awake. "Cat?" he asked softly.

She didn't respond; her anger too fresh, too raw. She tossed again to turn her back to him. She'd survived her mother's premature death, Brandon's murder, and marriage to a stranger who brought a bastard to her new strange, cold home. She'd built a life nevertheless. A happy life all things considered, loving her man and her children. But now? Too much. If she'd been cursed before, that was nothing compared the hex that had fallen on her the moment Cersei Lannister and all her incestuous brood stepped foot in Winterfell.

Ned scooted closer and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," she snapped. Promptly remembering her manners, she added a semi-conciliatory, "please, Ned."

He drew back.

She remembered the first time he'd touched her after his 'return,' hardly a callus on those strong, smooth hands. Hands meant to caress her. Now they were near as hard as ever, taught again the feel of steel and shield and reins in their grip and she couldn't bear to think of them touching her, loving her.

"I'm sorry Cat, truly," he whispered. "If there was any other way, I'd have taken it. It is simply our misfortune to live in a time when the Gods seek to make us their playthings," he said soothingly.

'Blaspheme!' "What do you want?" she said coldly.

She thought she heard him whisper, "Peace."

Then the bed started to shake softly as if Ned was smothering laughter. Apparently done with his private little amusement, her husband got out of bed and began clothing himself. Finished, she heard him take steps towards the door.

"What do you want?" she repeated.

Pausing at the door, Ned looked back at her. "I want the King to view me amicably. Let's charm him with our Stark warmth," he said drily. Then Ned was gone.

* * *

"Mother," Sansa chastised. "Lemon cake? For breakfast?"

Catelyn fought the sheepish look that tried to break out on her face. Sweet things as part of breaking one's fast were strictly forbidden in her well managed household; yet her troublesome stomach had had a craving for lemon that morning. Luckily the acquired mansion's staff, grateful to be well treated after the change in ownership, had been more than happy to bring her a small tin of the savory, tart and slightly sweet biscuits. She deliberately finished chewing before she opened her mouth to speak. She hadn't expected to see her daughter so early in the morning; getting up to face the day instead of lying about in bed boded well that perhaps her wrecked spirit was on the mend. She delicately cleared her throat after swallowing the last morsel. "I thought I deserved a treat," the Lady of Winterfell simply declared.

Sansa frowned. A not particularly attractive look for the girl; one of the brutal, still fresh scars on her unbroken cheek snaked down to the corner of her mouth and when she frowned, her lip pulling down, it made the red welt all the more vivid, practically throbbing. "You and father never came back out last night," she accused with her quiet complaint. "And Robb ignored my and Arya's questions when he left your rooms. He looked oddly upset somehow. Is everything all right?"

The worry in her daughter's words caught at Catelyn's heart. She put on a brave smile, all the while thinking, 'Of course not! Everything is terrible! By the Seven, at least your Lady is dead and you won't turn into one of … one of … Oh Robb! Oh Bran! Oh Rickon!' she bemoaned to herself. 'Why could I have not been more pure!? Damn Ned and his wolfish northern blood! Of course Jon Snow is cursed too, no thanks to his slut, whore mother's beguiling blood!' she raged.

Her kindly façade must have cracked. "Mother!" Sansa choked out, almost whimpering her concern.

Catelyn flung her arms open. Her beautiful, disfigured daughter ran into her reassuring embrace. "Oh dear one, everything's fine," she lied with a sweet whisper. "It's just … It's just that your father wants us to host the King for dinner sometime soon. He wants his Grace to learn to trust us. And … and, well … Robb feels that the King's pricklish pride will never forgive Robb nor forget how our banners proclaimed him King of the North."

"Oh," Sansa sniffled into the crook of her mother's neck.

Catelyn lovingly stroked her daughter's long auburn hair, so like her own. Part of her took refuge in that at least the lions hadn't marred this bit of Sansa's beauty. Another part cursed the lie she'd told. 'I must see Robb and Ned today before Sansa does,' she thought, knowing how fragile her daughter's trust in anyone was right now. 'I can't let her catch me in a lie.'

"Must I attend his … his Grace?" the maiden gulped, clearly remembering another on whom she'd been forced to speak that title.

"No, sweetling; only if you feel up to it." Her daughter had suffered enough, she held her tighter still. 'Praise the Mother Jeyne was found,' she thought, for Sansa's mood in general had improved tremendously the past few days. 'The Maiden knows what that poor girl suffered in Petyr's …' Catelyn squirmed inside at both the idea of that place and how she'd believed the blackguard to still be her friend. 'Still, the two's bond of friendship has somehow deepened further through their shared suffering.' Disappointingly any comfort from such a bond was utterly lacking between Sansa and Arya. In fact the two sisters' relationship was worse than ever their mother remembered from Winterfell. But now Arya did all the sniping and Sansa just sat their like a lump, taking it and tearing up at every little criticism.

The door to the eating parlor swung open. A guard wearing the livery of Winterfell stood in the entry way. Spotting Catelyn he dropped a small bow. "Milady?"

"Yes, Fryank?" the Lady of Winterfell responded, never letting go her embrace of Sansa.

"Ser Wendel Manderly is waiting at the main door to see you, milady," the guard murmured.

"Whatever for?" she asked with surprise from over the top of her daughter's head.

"A matter of honor, your lady," Fryank said drolly. "He departs King's Landing this morning and would say his goodbyes."

"Honor?"

"He insists," the guard answered.

"Very well," Catelyn sighed. She knew her lord husband's banners well and the younger son of Lord Manderly very well. The great walrus, and his even greater sized walrus of a brother Wylis, had escorted her from White Harbor to Moat Cailin; and from there he'd become one of Robb's personal guard, his battle companion, from the Twins to the Whispering Wood to Riverrun. She would do her duty as Lady of Winterfell and see the honor proud knight. "But I think not here, Fryank. Please inform the good Ser that I'll come greet him shortly in the foyer."

The guard bowed and withdrew.

"Better I meet him there, than here Sansa," she whispered in her daughter's ear. "He might eat all our larder before he departs," she joked.

The battered girl chuckled, remembering the immense girth of the near middle aged Manderly 'boys' from their periodic trips, along with their even more massive father, to Winterfell. Sansa slipped out of her mother's arms, a smile almost on her face; none of her scars tugging downward unattractively. "May I have a Lemon cake too?" she asked.

"Take the whole tin," Catelyn answered sweetly. She'd readily bribe her child if it made her happy for even just a moment. "But be sure to share some with Jeyne. I take it she's still sleeping?" That was another thing the pair shared, an enormous appetite for sleep. She hoped it meant they'd heal all the quicker.

"Yes, and I will," Sansa answered dutifully, but cheerfully enough too.

* * *

"Ser Wendel," the Lady of Winterfell said kindly entering the entrance hall, extending her hands to the garishly sea green and blue color clad man wearing a trident sporting merman on both his tunic and cape. The knight and one of the few nobles in the North to share her worship of the Seven stood erect, gut thrust outward, his great bulk patiently awaiting her arrival.

"Lady Stark," the gregarious man boomed back, accepting her small digits in his enormous flippers, before bending his bald head over so his walrus style facial hair could tickle what little skin of her hands remained exposed through his.

"Lady Catelyn, surely Ser Wendel, after all we've been through together," she courteously commanded with a bit of a conspiratorial tone.

Two crimson dots exploded in the knight's pudgy, pink cheeks. His toothy welcoming smile split even further revealing more of his yellow white ivory tusks. "Lady Catelyn, you are as gracious as you are kind as you are lovely. I said as much to our King when my lord, your husband, personally selected me to be his first envoy to his Grace," the gallant and fat man blustered, easily inflating the importance of his two hour voyage by fishing boat out into Blackwater Bay.

"I thank you for the good impression you passed on to his Grace," Catelyn replied, gently, but firmly tugging her still whole hands out of Ser Wendel's meaty grasp. "The King is a new person to us in the North," she continued. "There is much for him to learn about us and likewise we must learn his ways too."

The knight bobbed his head sagely. "There is no shillyshallying in his Grace. That much is certain," Ser Wendel proclaimed with a knowing grin.

'Yes,' Catelyn agreed ironically to herself. 'Once he lets others win him King's Landing, his Grace moves very quickly indeed.' "Pray tell Ser Wendel, is his Grace at all the reason you have come to see?"

"Yes and no, your ladyship," the walrus beamed with pride. "Yesterday early evening there was brief mention of a possible mission." And now the knight lowered his voice and accompanied it with a wink to say, "A secret mission," before resuming at his usual boisterous level of speech, "to Dragonstone. Then late last night I received a message from his Grace that a modest fleet would depart today and I was to be on it." He lowered his voice dramatically again, "From Dragonstone I am to travel on to White Harbor with precious cargo and messages for my father and the other lords and castellans still remaining in the North."

Catelyn's stomach suddenly roiled. A sour look to match her sour belly spread across her face. She feared she might vomit. 'That wasn't in Ned's plan against the Others,' she thought confused, distracted by her rebellious insides.

"Don't look so sad Lady Catelyn," Ser Wendel blathered on, oblivious as to the real reason behind the change in her ladyship's expression. "While I shall alas miss out on the garlands still to be won here, we all must do our duty as your lord husband, his Grace, and the Seven require of us. But if I dare boast, I think the fierce mermen have already earned their fair share, and will do more in the future, what? Did we not safely escort you, my lady, as my puissant father, Lord Wyman, commanded, along with the levy of our House, from White Harbor after your landing to the mighty host your son, the war lord Robb, gathered at Moat Cailin? And did I not share the dangers of the long road south and the Whispering Woods and Riverrun and the taking of King's Landing with you, my lady?"

"So you have come to say your goodbyes to me then, Ser Wendel?" Catelyn asked with a hint of confusion at the actual intent of the knight's ramblings which she was nevertheless amazed he seemed to spout in all one extraordinarily long breath.

The walrus bowed deeply again. "Yes, sadly 'tis true. My lord father would be distraught, if I did not enter your presence one last time before my departure and ask if there is any last favor House Manderly may perform for you ere I take my leave?"

"Very noble of you good Ser. May I ask? Will his Grace or my lord husband be at the docks to see you off?" the Lady of Winterfell asked.

Ser Wendell smiled with deep pride. "Yes, I believe they intend to, my Lady."

Catelyn's stomach lurched again as she decided on the course to set. "Then you may do one last deed in my service today, Ser Wendel. Kindly escort me down to the docks and my lord husband. The sea breeze will do me good."

* * *

Through the crowd of six wolves and six mermen forming a moving shield around Catelyn and Ser Wendel, she could see the tall, bald figure of the King looming over the tired, rapidly greying features of her husband. 'Gods he looks exhausted,' she thought. While his skin was now smoother, younger, and magically devoid of all the scars, both small and large, that he'd accumulated in over thirty years of regularly training with swords and even fighting, and surviving, battles; since his 'return,' Catelyn realized she'd never seen his face look so old, so lined with care marks. Though she couldn't comprehend why Ned had refused to share all his 'knowledge' with her, and with Robb, until last night; she could guess how that horrible, terrifying 'burden' he'd carried alone might have been aging him. Regardless, she bit back on any sympathy she felt for her husband and his stingy northern soul. She still had more anger than she knew what to do with to work out on that frustrating man. And Ned would just have to wait to see how and when she chose to do so.

The escort came to a stop a good fifty feet away from Ned and the King. The guards around them parted to reveal that the pair stood alone, out of earshot from any busybodies. Neither man looked happy. Clearly the two bull headed men were having a disagreement.

"Your Grace, my Lord Stark, I have returned," Ser Wendel announced loudly, oblivious to the tension surrounding the men he addressed. "And I have brought Lady Stark with me."

The pair looked up at the distraction. Noting his wife, a fleeting smile slipped across Ned's face before returning to its previous aura of icy coolness. The King scowled at the interruption, then mastered himself at the sight of his powerful banner's lady wife. "Lady Stark, Ser Wendel, you may approach," the King deigned.

Alongside the knight, the Lady of Winterfell stepped past the semi-circle of guards. Nearing the King she curtseyed and the knight bowed. "Your Grace," they echoed together.

"Your lordly husband is a stubborn man," Stannis Baratheon announced without preamble.

Her husband tried to keep his mask in place, but failed and exuded irritation at the King's words.

Catelyn breathed deep before answering. The hint of salt on the air blowing in off the bay felt refreshing, invigorating. "I know of no woman who, when asked in the strictest confidence, would say otherwise about her husband, your Grace," she said impishly.

"Ha!" barked the King, amused at her slight unfaithfulness to the proprieties of his chief banner's marital compact.

Ned simply snorted, but kept his mouth shut.

"But pray tell me, your Grace," Catelyn continued, "would her Grace, Queen Selyse, say any differently of hers?"

The King's thin lips snapped shut. He chewed the lower one while rubbing his close cropped beard. "Nay," he at last murmured. "The truth of your words cut deep, Lady Stark. Are you married Ser Wendel?" he asked abruptly, turning his attention to the knight who stood near dumbstruck at the lady's wholly unexpected outbursts.

"No, your Grace. I do not yet have that honor," the merman blurted nervously.

"Then let this be an abject lesson to you, Ser, on the double edged nature of marrying a woman with wit, wisdom, and the courage to use it," the King concluded gruffly.

Catelyn curtseyed again while saying, "Your Grace is most gracious."

"And stubborn," he gloomed, still displeased with the mirror the lady had shown him in.

A thought struck her. "Too stubborn to accept an invitation to dinner, your Grace?"

A rumbling sound dislodged itself from the King's throat and sounded remarkably like, "When?"

Catelyn watched Ned blink in surprise. "Why not tonight, your Grace? I thought just a quiet meal, you and my family."

"A King, a new King, must be seen feasting his many lordlings." Stannis Baratheon gritted his teeth, "No matter how tedious they prove to be. Perhaps another night, Lady Stark?"

"There are banners and then there are _Banners_, your Grace. My invitation could easily be extended to include my brother, Lord Edmure, and my uncle, Ser Brynden," she counter offered. "The Blackfish might have insight in how to draw the Vale to your support," she suggested, looking for bait that might sway her prey to committing.

"Generous, Lady Stark," the King commented, right before an almost devious look slipped across his stiff, stony face. "However, your lord husband and I have a disagreement. We are sending ships off on the autumn waters of the Narrow Sea and I wish them to include certain messages to the Houses of the North. These messages will carry more weight if they included Lord Stark's seal. However, he is … opposed to my … stratagem. If he were to include the imprint of his sigil …" Stannis Baratheon left the implication dangling.

Catelyn shot Ned a look: _Don't say a thing_! "He accepts."

A snarl of frustration escaped her wolfish husband.

A jolt of pleasure flowed through her, knowing she'd tweaked her too closed off for his own good husband. Feeling ever so slightly guilty, she decided to throw him a bone. "Though, to be fair, your Grace, it is difficult for a clever man to accept that another is equally as clever."

"Ha!" the King barked again, understanding perfectly where the lady's jibe was truly aimed, at himself. "Beware the double edged spouse, Ser Wendel, beware. Very well, Lady Stark, I accept your generous offer."

She smiled as sweetly as could. "Surely, 'tis Lady Catelyn, your Grace."


	27. Chapter 26

Sean seethed inside watching that pompous bastard walk off the dock in the company of his wife, chatting amiably, probably conspiring against him … again. His hand squeezed at the pommel of his sword as if it were a stress ball. The actor, somewhere deep in his Sheffield soul, found just enough self-awareness and sense of irony to realize his clenched jaw and tooth grinding reaction to having been shown up by Cat was a spot on match of George's go to description for one Stannis Fucking Baratheon the First of His Blockheaded Name. 'Bitch! I'm saving your crappy backward planet and you're giving me shit. Me!' he raged to himself. 'I'm the one who read the fucking books! You'd have ended up a god damn zombie without me! Christ!'

"Lord Stark?" Ser Wendel asked most tentatively.

"What, damnit!?" Sean snapped.

The knight's plump, rosy face turned even redder around his walrus bristles, partially out of embarrassment for his liege's predicament and partially for the unnecessarily ill-mannered tone used to address him. "May I beg your leave to check on the status of the ships, my Lord?" he asked in a deep and very strained voice.

'Steady mate, these blokes are bloody prickly about slights to their honor.' The actor took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Certainly, Ser Wendel. Forgive my unseemly outburst. It was most unfair to you."

The Merman seemed moderately appeased by the apology and wisely said nothing, simply bobbing a somewhat stiff bow in acknowledgment.

"There is much for you to oversee; this mission to Dragonstone and beyond seems a fool's errand to most, I daresay, but the Old Gods have shown me how the North's future," 'and likely my own damned life,' Sean thought in a quick aside, "rests on the sharp edges of the black as night dragonglass you will retrieve for us."

At the outright praise, a hint of a smile peeked out through Manderly's thick accumulation of facial hair. "Proud I was when you selected me for this duty, Lord Stark; and still am."

"My duty today is far lighter than yours, Ser Wendel." Not Ned lifted the pouch full of correspondence for the North's noble and masterly houses that the stubborn bastard Stannis had left the actor when he'd departed with Catelyn, and shook it lightly. "His Grace requires me to affix my sigil to these. Might I use your cabin to do so, then leave them there in your knightly care?"

The portly man's narrow smile widened further at the well phrased request, revealing a mostly full set of yellowing teeth.

Sean couldn't help but notice that Ser Wendel's tusks, like most everyone else in Westeros, were in desperate need of the benefits from regular brushing, fluoride, flossing, whitening, mouth wash, a dentist, and an orthodontist. This made him suddenly remember the painful root canal he'd had a decade ago. 'And the world jokes at how bad British teeth are. Bugger, that! Though I guess this'll be another thing I'll have to introduce on this god and dental hygiene forsaken world if I want to have any teeth left when I die; hopefully at an exceedingly old age.'

"Please follow me, Lord Eddard," Ser Wendel replied with a bow and then turned to waddle on enormous ham hock thighs further out on the pier.

'Lord Eddard am I now?' Sean thought snarkily, following along beside the knight towards what looked like a two masted merchant ship, some sort of cog or carrack, the actor didn't know which, 'I played Sharpe, not fuking Hornblower or Aubrey,' that had the misfortune of docking at Dragonstone some months ago, and now flew the Baratheon stag as its banner.

* * *

Sean sighed in annoyance as he dribbled wax from the lit candle he held at an angle onto the last of Stannis' already Baratheon stag sealed messages. He put the candle down and then pressed his signet ring into the rapidly cooling mound of goop, leaving an indentation of Winterfell's direwolf in the mess. He didn't even wince when he lifted his curled finger up out of the wax; he'd lost the last of the small hairs off the backs of the relevant digits over a half a dozen impressions back. Typing an email, hell, even sending something by the post, was a damned sight easier than this medieval contrivance of wax, parchment, quills, ink pots, carrier ravens, and sigils.

The first time one of his lords, probably that fuck head Roose, had wanted his seal to authenticate a message he'd realized his wedding ring, for more reasons than one, was useless; he needed a signet ring. Nevertheless that deficiency hadn't slowed down his kicking the ever living shit out of Tywin Lannister and only delayed by a bit his first meeting with not Michelle, Riverruns' somewhat dubious first emissary to the 'returned' Ned Stark. The Cerwyn, Hornwood, and Bolton seals on that first message instead of a Stark one had apparently done the trick. Still, one of the first things he'd done in his initial private meeting with Robb was to take his not son's wolf embossed ring for his own.

As he absent mindedly rubbed bits of wax out of the indentations in the ring, the actor contemplated the now double sealed letters splayed out before him atop the cabins built in writing table. What did they say? He didn't know for certain. Sure the slyer than he looked Stannis had 'told' him what they said, but he'd 'accidentally' neglected to mention he'd already sealed them. "Tricky bastard," he murmured. The temptation had been so so strong for Sean to open one of the missives and see for himself how badly Stannis was screwing up his strategy. Luckily for him George hadn't dicked around like a Tolkien, making his own confusing languages and alphabets for his mad world; so the actor could have read the messages if he'd wanted to, but he'd resisted. 'This is probably Stannis' secret test of my loyalty,' not Ned thought. And he wasn't going to give the touchy bastard anything to hang his suspicions on.

The actor sighed. "I've probably been playing my cards too close to the vest anyway." He realized that if he did die, an outcome he fully intended to delay as long as he possibly could, he still cared about what might happen to those he would leave behind. Parts of him still found everything unreal. He had less emotional attachment to the guards out on the dock than he did the extras for the crowd scenes in 'National Treasure.' "Lived through that role, didn't I?" he muttered.

But Robb, Arya, even Sansa? He didn't want to see them hurt further. He realized he seldom ever thought of them any more as not Rich or not Maisie or not Sophie; they were flesh and blood, no longer roles written on a page by George. And that made Cat's betrayal of him so … so hard. He loved her; needed her, or he'd go mad. "I'm trying to keep you alive," he snarled with frustration.

He leaned over and blew out the candle, reducing the light in the cabin to what came in through the lone, heavily scummed, port window. The darkness left him as befuddled as the light, alone and without any clever answers. Unbidden, Robert Frost's quote on what the poet had learned about life popped into the actor's head, 'it goes on.' Sean nodded in agreement. "I can't control everything," he whispered. He checked that the sealed messages were all stacked together and then left the dim cabin for the dimmer passageway.

"Does the mummer man have any last words?" a quiet voice whispered near his ear.

Not Ned jumped. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, reaching for his sword, surprised he wasn't already dead. Something reached through the dark of the passageway and grabbed his wrist; the nerves in his hand went limp, he couldn't grasp the pommel.

A soft laugh greeted his impotence. "A man must remain alive if he is to pay the price laid upon him; or has the mummer man changed his mind again and wishes to utter the name Jaqen, to Jaqen, again?"

Sean felt his heart unfreeze and pleasantly found he hadn't pissed himself from fright. He swallowed hard. "No." He cleared his throat. His scattered thoughts took him back to their last conversation, so with nothing better to say to the spooky man, he began reiterating it. "The Red Priestess' flames will have shown her that a man with your … hair style is coming."

Through the murk, a flash of bright white teeth, unusual for Westeros, shown. "The mummer man has already warned me, more than once. I will be just so …"

The actor blinked, in the weak light he swore the Lorathi face in front of him waivered for a second, revealing the glimpse of another hidden beneath: hooked nose and curly black hair. Then just as quickly the face firmed back up into the familiar laconic appearance of Jaqen. Sean gulped. "She'll know that face too," he rasped. "If your talents allow it, you should change frequently, and only into the faces of people coming off the boat or already living on the island.

The white teeth revealed themselves again. "The mummer man knows much about the art of becoming that which he is not."

"And? Did you truly want to hear any last insights from me? You're the trained assassin," not Ned accused.

Jaqen chuckled softly. "You are a mystery, mummer man."

'Stop calling me that, damn you!' That someone might have guessed his true nature scared Sean to the marrow.

"The true skill of my brotherhood is to see inside the hearts of men. I know what you are not, but not yet exactly what you are. And I am not alone in seeking the truth of this."

Chills went up and down Sean's back. 'Who else,' he wondered. 'Dare I ask?' He watched the white and orange haired man stand silently, patiently, waiting to see if he could tease an answer out of the actor. 'He'll want to know the truth before divulging anything; too dangerous,' Sean decided. Not Ned cleared his throat uncomfortably, wanting this little tet-a-tet to be over. "After, will you go back to Braavos or does the Many Faced God require you to take another life?" the actor asked pointedly, showing the assassin he would leave with his curiosity unsatisfied.

Jaqen smiled ruefully, perhaps having seen how close he'd come to acquiring what he'd sought in this audience. Then he touched his forehead, splayed an open hand towards not Ned, whispered "_Valar morghulis_," and seemingly floated backward until he disappeared into the gloom of the ill lit passageway.

"_Valar dohaeris_," Sean replied just as quietly, wondering whom or what exactly he himself served.

* * *

Sean thought the dinner was going surprisingly well, if a bit quieter than normal with only the King, the Starks, the Tullys, and their attending squires and pages present. The meal was simple and hardy: cheese, bread, a fish stew, apples, dried plums, a vegetable pie, and water and ale to wash it down with. Stannis surprisingly, as tact was not his strong suit, had yet to make any mention of the marital discord between not Ned and Catelyn which had allowed him to accept the evening's invitation. Then, not so surprisingly, the socially awkward man finally put his boot in it when he chose to address Sansa, who so far had been putting on a brave and silent face with her attendance.

"Lady Sansa, this so called Kingsguard has disgraced itself with their ignoble treatment of you," that gravelly, grating voice announced without warning.

Sansa paled, unexpectedly finding herself scrutinized. She quickly swallowed whatever morsel was in her mouth as she looked down into her lap. "Yes, your Grace," she politely whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Raise your face and look at me, my Lady," Stannis commanded.

A collective gasp filled the room.

The King hardly noticed. "You have nothing to be ashamed off," he continued. "The shame is theirs. I would see the crimes I must judge them for."

With grave reluctance and soundless tears she slowly lifted her brutally savaged face until she stared helplessly at the heartless man, dull watery blue eyes to dark storm swept ones.

'Are you pleased with yourself now, Cat?'

Stannis did not flinch once at what he saw, nor even blink in the tens of seconds he gazed upon the child-near-maiden. "Bravely met," he uttered at last, perhaps finally getting an inkling of what he had asked of the girl. "You shall have justice," he proclaimed sternly, before adding, "from all your tormentors, and that bastard Waters most of all."

'Who's the bastard here?'

Remembering her long training in manners, Sansa squeaked, "Your Grace is kind." Then she dropped her head, hiding that once beautiful face beneath a long fan of still gorgeous auburn tresses, and unsuccessfully tried to disguise a long sniffle.

"Grey Wind!" Robb called stridently, hoping to distract attention from his sister's quiet anguish.

The direwolf, sleeping on the ground opposite his human brother's seat at the table, opened a yellow eye and perked up his ears at mention of his name.

Robb held up a knife on which a sliver of tuna rested. "Do you want some, boy?" he asked over eagerly.

Grey Wind's sole open eye blinked, then his ears drooped back down, revealing his indifference to sea food.

Roslin, sitting beside her husband, tittered nervously. "It seems, my lord, that your wolf prefers meatier sustenance." The pretty little chit turned to look at Robb's squire. "Alyn, could you go find a bone, and not a fish or chicken bone mind, for poor Grey Wind?" she politely asked her blood-kin Haigh, a grandson of Walder Frey through marriage to his long dead first wife Perra Royce.

"Of course, my lady," he promptly answered his nearly same age as himself half aunt, and excused himself.

The direwolf stood up at mention of a bone and looked to follow Alyn Haigh until Robb told barked, "Stay!" A command which brought obedience but also a brief rumble of unhappiness from his throat.

"Tell me Ser Robb," the King asked, oblivious to the tension in the room. "How did you come to discover this beast out of legend and tame it?"

"The taming was not difficult, your Grace. We found them as new born pups," he declared stiffly. "Their mum slain by the antlers of a giant stag."

"An omen I hope we find not repeated," Stannis said wryly. "Were you wandering about that Wolfswood of the North's?"

Robb smiled curtly and shot not Ned a knowing look. "No your Grace, we were returning from the execution of a deserter from the Night's Watch."

"And were you there as well, Lord Stark?" the King inquired, having caught the brief look between the two.

Edmure chuckled. "I should say so, your Grace. My dear good brother has that grim Northern sense of justice."

"And what is that, Ser Edmure?"

"Tell him, Lord Eddard. It's your custom, not mine."

The actor instantly remembered the quote he'd said to Issac, the not Bran of that happier world, as if the very page of the script was sitting in front of him. "The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

"And did your lord father speak those words to you that day, Ser Robb?" the Stag asked seriously.

"No, your Grace, not that day. But he did say those words to my younger brother Bran, much like he did to me the first day I ever saw him pass the judgment of Winterfell on a guilty man," he said solemnly. "Have you ever passed justice that way?" the young man challenged.

"Yes," the King replied, his tone, even in such a short word, showing he took the duty very seriously.

"And did you ever think to yourself, your Grace, that mayhap you could not bear what you were about to do?" not Ned asked, joining in to test the man who sight unseen he'd perhaps unwisely chosen as Westeros' next King. 'Let's see how you answer that?' Sean thought to himself, well knowing that the proper response in this blood thirsty place would not jibe with the enlightened British sensibilities, leavened as they were from rough and tumble Sheffield, he had grown up with.

"Once," the King answered, sounding almost thoughtful and hesitant for a change. "Though Lord Stark it was not an instance where I truly considered separating the man's head from his shoulders," he said with what might have passed for dry wit.

The actor's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Stannis nodded, having taken note of not Ned's sudden, increased interest. "It was during Robert's rebellion." The man's eyes dark blue eyes blackened further at the memory. "We in Storm's End had little to eat if you remember, not like this magnificent feast tonight," he said with no apparent irony and then ground this teeth together briefly before continuing. "As we starved I had to kill several faithless men who conspired to throw the gates open to the Tyrells. But there came a time when even I knew we would soon no longer be strong enough to man the walls should the Reachers find time to pull themselves away from their over laden tables and make an assault."

'Davos,' leapt into Sean's mind.

"Then on a cloudy night with no moon we found succor from a smuggler of all people. He slipped past the Redwyne blockade like a ghost; sailing his shadowy ship, the _Black Betha_, through Storm End's sea gate to bring us onions and potatoes. I received this savior, a slight, unimposing looking man whom I'd never before met, but well knew of for his renown at dodging both the King's customs collectors and the royal fleet. His actions left me in a quandary; we would have undoubtedly been defeated without him, but he was also an outlaw. I decided he deserved a justice that accounted for the good as well as the ill, for one good deed, even a great deed, does not wipe away the sins of a lifetime."

"What did you do, your Grace?" Robb asked with evident interest, clearly drawn in by the King's surprising tale of about the shades of black and white and grey.

'Cut his bloody fingers off, that's what the ingrate did,' Sean thought to himself. He'd yet to see Ser Davos in person, a fact he much resented for though the man was low born and shunned by the nobility, he had Stannis' trust. Such a man could prove very useful to the actor.

"For his crimes, I took the first knuckles off all the fingers, but not the thumb, of his left hand," Stannis responded.

A murmur of surprise made a round about the room.

"And then I knighted him on his right shoulder for the nobility of his daring act. Ser Davos took the name of Seaworth for his new made house, and choose a white onion reposed on the sail of a black ship as his coat of arms," the King concluded.

"Hear, hear!" Edmure near shouted

"Well done!" cried the Blackfish.

Roslin applauded.

Robb broke into a wide grin.

Sean wasn't sure if they were reacting more to Davos' pluck or Stannis' definition of justice, George displayed a warped sense of chivalry as far as he was concerned.

"Your Grace, what did Ser Davos think of your justice?" Catelyn asked sagely.

"Devan," called Stannis.

"Yes, your Grace," the squire standing behind the King's chair promptly answered.

"Tell us your knightly father's opinion of my justice," he commanded

"He found them just, your Grace; and requested you swing the blade yourself," the squire said with strange enthusiasm.

"When first I pronounced sentence, I did wonder at the wisdom of my course. I had already intended to carry out the penalty myself, but when the man agreed so readily and requested my own hand to perform it, then I knew I had satisfied what justice required of me," Stannis said rather smugly. "And has your knightly father ever once found fault with my sentence, Devan?"

"No, your Grace. My knightly father wears the bones of his fingertips in a bag around his neck. He thinks of them as his good luck charms," the youth said with pleasure.

Stannis smiled at the evidence his own vast wisdom and benevolence.

Brynden, Edmure, Robb, and Arya lauded Ser Davos' strong embrace of Stannis' justice.

Catelyn, Roslin, and clearly Sansa said nothing, but their faces, such as could be seen, showed a mild disgust at the knight's use of his missing digits.

'Davos has got bigger balls than me, that's for sure,' Sean told himself.

The main door to the dining hall opened, Alyn Haigh stood there, looking a bit nervous.

"Bring me the bone, Alyn," Roslin called out. Grey Wind stood up again and sniffed the air.

"I fear I did not bring them, my Lady," he answered his Frey demi-aunt.

"Alyn," she scolded.

He ignored her. "Your Grace, my Lord," he said, addressing both Stannis and not Ned. "A visitor most urgently requests permission to enter with important news."

"Who is it?" the King asked gruffly, unhappy at the interruption.

"Ser Davos Seaworth, your Grace."

'Speak of the devil,' Sean thought, before snickering to himself, 'Coincidences of timing aren't just things of West End farces.'

"Let him enter," Stannis commanded.

The squire turned to gesture behind and several seconds later a simply garbed, plain faced, slender, middle aged man strode into the room and bowed deeply to the King.

"What news have you for me Ser Davos?" Stannis asked.

The man smiled slightly through his brown and grey speckled beard before speaking. "Your Grace may remember I grew up in King's Landing, in one of the less illustrious neighborhoods; and sometimes returned here during my days as a smuggler?"

"Go on," the King said shortly.

"I have been in touch with some friends from my days at less … honorable endeavors."

"The news, Ser Davos, if it is so important you must barge in on my meal with Lord Stark, Ser Tully, and their families," he said impatiently.

"I've discovered a way into the Red Keep, your Grace."

'Shit!' Sean swore. 'Too soon!'

"By the Seven, outstanding!" Stannis barked, looking truly pleased for once. "Is there any other good news?!" Stannis asked almost excitedly.

For a moment no one said anything, then Catelyn abruptly announced, "I'm pregnant."


	28. Chapter 27

Merle Waterman, the chubby squire he'd acquired from fat Lord Manderly (did they grow them in any other size than extra-large in White Harbor?) back at the beginning of the actor's odyssey, tugged hard on the straps, making sure the breast plate fit snuggly, but not too snuggly, against his thick layered doublet and torso. The youth's loud breathing filled Sean's ears in the otherwise silent room.

"Good, my Lord?" the teen inquired.

Sean merely grunted his approval. He'd been sitting mostly quiet, stewing inside and seething, as his squire suited him up for the night's unnecessary mission.

The youth smiled up at the Lord of Winter and then moved behind not Ned and the simple stool he sat on. Merle's huffing and puffing didn't change as he lifted up the back plate from where it leaned and slid it into the tongue and grooves provided for it on the edges of the breast plate. Several metallic clicks announced the joining of the two sheets of Earth, not Westeros, wrought steel. "Too tight? Too loose, my Lord?"

The actor rolled his shoulders and wiggled his hips, judging the marriage of the two main pieces of his armor. His automatic checking of the steel's fit, as well as the feel of its weight, felt familiar, practically natural now. Everything was becoming all too natural. Sean grunted approval again and Merle began snapping the fasteners in place.

Sean had worn little other than this almost mocking gift from the Show's senior stunt coordinator and it's weapons master during his first two months on this god forsaken shit hole of a murdering world; well, at least while awake, During those first hectic, disoriented weeks, as the inexorably long horse rides and the senseless brutality of ordering men to their deaths nearly drove the lad from Sheffield mad, when his tired, sore, not nearly as fit as he once believed middle aged body would awaken from too few hours of blessed rest, he'd simply stare at the armor in hate; searching for the energy to put it on again and face another nightmare of a typical Westeros day.

"Finished, my Lord," Merle said with a sense of dull, squirely satisfaction.

The kernel of Sean buried deeply within the role of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had hoped, unreasonably he knew, this was fucking George's script after all no matter how much he was adlibbing his way through it, that he could avoid taking the stage for another fight scene. Out of fear the actor had hoped to now just direct others from the wings; partly out of wanting to simply staff alive, but also because of his worry that he was starting to like it. He desperately needed a new part to play. At least Clint and Harry had been proven right with their 'magic' armor, if only front and back plates, he had made it alive through his next role, so far. "What next?" he groused.

* * *

"_Milord! Milord!" the distant voice shouted excitedly._

_Sean ignored it. Lost in the vile deed he'd just committed. An act in this place that signified mercy, but one which merely gave him the label so many here already wore … murderer._

"_Lord Stark, a messenger," the Umber man-at-arms nearest him said anxiously._

"_Rest in peace Tyrion Lannister," he whispered, "for those bastards made of your life a living hell." Not Ned stood up, a bloodied dagger dangled nearly nerveless from his hand. At his feet the Dwarf, the Imp, the not Peter laid inert and twisted; displaying an ugly mortal wound at his side and the agony releasing death stroke upon his neck, a ragged little red smile proving to God and George that Sean Bean was now a killer. "What?" he asked in a daze._

_The rank, gore covered warrior grabbed his arm and jerked it to point up the hill that they had, was it only minutes ago(?),charged down. "Messenger," he hissed._

_The actor shook his hand free and started to look about for signs of any more fighting and clansmen. "Are we alright?" he asked, still to in shock to make much sense of what he saw spread out across the slope. 'Madness! Madness,' Sean clipped to himself._

"_They broke, Lord Stark," the psychopath said with fecund breath rushing out between the rather large gaps in his yellow and brown and black stained teeth._

"_Oh," he muttered distractedly, and stopped scanning about the carnage in order to look at the rider recklessly shooting down the incline on a garron scarce larger than himself. Several other Umber men-at-arms around him waved their hands in the air to attract the messenger's attention. _

_Slowly it dawned on him that that his arms and legs ached, while his chest, despite the almost gasping breaths he took, felt fine. The actor turned killer looked down and saw several slashes through the surcoat he wore over his armor. He peered in more closely through the holes to investigate. "I'll be damned," he whispered. Only the faintest of scratches showed on the smooth gray steel surface. Sean put his hands on his hips in amazement. Something didn't feel right. His sword, it didn't rest in its scabbard. Puzzlement. "Where's my sword," he asked in bafflement, he could no longer remember even having drawn it._

"_Here, Lord Stark." The banner sworn to the unchained giant of Last Hearth said, pulling the blade out of the dirt near Tyrion Lannister's body; apparently from where his liege had plunged it's tip in his haste to reach the little man. "Not the right way to treat your steel, milord," the man scolded lightly._

_Not Ned nodded absent mindedly and took back his slightly nicked blade, surprised to note the lack of any blood on it. 'I swung the fucker, didn't I?' His memory of the charge down the backside of the hill towards the force of mountain barbarians flanking the Kingsroad was a jumble: bumps and shrieks; swords, axes, and polearms flashing at him; and, men falling and men dying._

_The messenger pulled up a dozen yard away. "Lord Stark, the line breaks! The line breaks and there're no more men to plug the gaps!"_

"_Shit!" 'Flee!' the part of his mind caring only for self-preservation yelled. But he couldn't run, the armor felt too heavy on his chest. Something dramatic, something memorable snapped inside of him. He waved his sword over his head and screamed, "Come on, lads!" And Sean Bean, actor and Ned Stark recreationist, started trotting back up the hill despite all the weight to see what dangers threatened next._

* * *

"The gorget?" Merle asked.

"No, I'll be wearing the visorless helm," the actor answered sensibly. 'And looking like Sir Ian in X-Men,' he chuckled too himself; 'or would that be Ser Ian?' "In the dark, I think sight and mobility are more important than what extra protection the bassinet or great helm offers."

The chubby lad nodded his head in evident sage agreement. "The aventail then," his squire announced and walked back to the table where the dwindling remains of his armor selection waited. The young man picked up the chain mail mantle and stepped towards not Ned.

"I'll put that on my lord husband," Cat announced.

Sean pivoted as best he could, the greaves and cuisses covering his upper and lower legs creaking as he turned towards the door from where she had suddenly appeared. His wife/not wife stood there looking magnificent, a corona caused by some torch behind her seemed to light her auburn hair a flame. Below the fiery tresses she kept her face still, trying to hide the private anxiety which the actor could just barely detect beneath her delectable, and equally aggravating, surface.

"Of course, my Lady," Merle responded properly and promptly passed the flexible curtain of chainmail over to Catelyn.

"That will be all, Merle," she commanded.

Not Ned's squire bowed and silently left the room, making sure the door shut behind him.

Catelyn stared at not Ned and Sean stared back at his long gone not Michelle.

She broke the long, painful silence first. "Lift up your chin," she ordered him.

He paused, scowled, but at last did as she wanted as he knew not what to say next; a mortal sin for an actor. It was Debra and Melanie and Abigail and, god help him, Georgina all over again; his vision narrowed till all he saw was her face as he felt the lack of words, and, worse, the stubborn unwillingness to speak those that did come, descend upon him in a furor.

The cold metal of the chain links making up the edge of the collar brushed over the lightly greying hair on the edge of his skull and tugged at his ears, bending one sharply, until at least slipping past the obstructions to settle around the base of his neck and drape part way over his shoulders. Cat reached out a soft hand and gently brushed his lengthening hair, though still shorter than the damned wig he wore on set.

"I'm sorry, Ned," she whispered.

The actor toke note of the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. He always hated it when a woman went on a crying jag with him, manipulating him, twisting him into knots. Sean continued his silence, putting as thick a mask of ice on his face as he could. If he'd been angry at her before the dinner, playing Stannis against him to assuage her hurt feelings, that was nothing compared to his ire at her unexpected dropping of the baby bombshell.

"I didn't know what to do," Cat claimed with a soft, husky voice. "I've never been so angry at you Ned as I was last night. All those secrets, so many of them so very difficult to believe, that you kept from me. After all these years, to think you didn't trust me, to treat me so coldly. But I could never hate you, or hurt you Ned. I've tried to understand. Please believe me."

He raised his eyebrows dubiously and narrowed his eyelids to shield himself from her womanly pleadings and sly deceptions.

"It's true. I worried that the King would want you to go along with him. And I … I thought if he knew I was pregnant he'd … he wouldn't …" her voice trailed off despondently.

"YOU THOUGHT!? Oh god!" Sean spluttered and then started laughing sarcastically. He couldn't control himself, the irony and pathos of the situation rolling off him in waves; giving him a release of sorts to the emotions bottled within. "You thought? Good god women, Stannis would never have commanded me to go if you _hadn't_ shoved your pregnancy in his face! God damnit!" he smacked a balled up hand on to the stool in frustration.

Cat looked confused.

"He needs to win the Iron Throne for himself. So far I've been doing all the work for him, at least until now. He had to do this last bit without me to prove, however weakly, his right to kingship by conquest," he explained with brutal coldness.

His Westeros wife's damp eyes widened, the light of understanding beginning to shine in her pretty blues.

"Now, thanks to Stannis' over developed sense of honor, he thinks he must take _me_ with him into the Red Keep for fear otherwise my banners might think I, _I_, was hiding behind you and the coming babe. As if I haven't done enough murdering already," he hissed.

She raised her hands to cover her mouth as she gasped, "I've made a frightful hash of it."

'Just like you always do in the books when you lead with your heart; and now I'm left holding the bag for it this time, bitch.' "Oh it gets better, Cat. Stannis now has an opportunity to see me dead," Sean spewed. 'And shit rolls downhill, Roose, you sick bastard; if I'm risking my life you're coming too.'

"But why?" she chirped.

"Because of you, my beautiful, red haired Cat. You're gorgeous fertile hips are going to have our sixth, _sixth_ child." 'My fourth. Maybe I'll get a lad this time,' he thought with a strange wistful hope. "What does Stannis have? An ugly jug eared, hair lipped wife and one pitiful daughter forever scarred with greyscale."

"The King would never order you killed," his wife declared firmly.

Sean eyes bugged out. "Of course he won't order that, he's too in love with his sense of justice to purposefully command my death. But if he needs someone to lead a particularly dangerous task tonight, who do you think he'll just happen to ask?" the actor posed mockingly and then shrugged. "Lord Stark was Robert's friend, never mind," he intoned, doing his best to mimic Stannis' deep, gravel filled voice.

"Ned, oh Ned," Catelyn gushed and then threw herself into his arms.

Even through his armor, her warm, pliant flesh clung to him. Over sniffles and tears and wails she plastered his face with kisses. Despite himself, and the bizarre situation before him, Sean felt himself growing hard. 'Jesus, I can barely get my cock out of this get up to piss. No way I can pull my stiffy out for a goodbye shag,' he cursed inside, all thoughts of anger dropped by the sudden swelling in his other brain.

"I'm so scared for you Ned," she cried.

"I've come back from the dead for you Cat," he said and pulled her tighter. "There should be nothing to fear tonight," he claimed, trying to reassure both of them.

She burrowed her head deeper into the crook of his neck. "Ned?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes," not Ned whispered back.

"I've seen you practice," Cat said in a tiny voice.

"And … ?" he prodded.

"You're … slower and less graceful than before … than when you wielded Ice."

The truth of her words struck him like a bucket of ice water, for he knew them to be true. Yet until that moment, no one had dared tell the Lord of Winterfell to his face that he was no longer near the swordsman he had once been. In response, one of his hands snaked down her back to cup a firm, shapely buttock below; giving it a saucy squeeze. "You've never complained of my sword work before," he teased.

Catelyn giggled briefly, then with all seriousness simply uttered a chastising, "Ned."

"Worry not, luv. My plate'll stop any blow, the Old Gods," 'or at least Harry and Clint,' "have told me so. And maybe I'll get Ice back tonight too," he said, trying to put a cheerful spin on her observation so dark that it matched the night.

* * *

"_Come on, lads!" he cried out again, this time in a ragged breath to the two or three hundred Umber men following him. Jogging up hill was taking its toll on him, the actor wasn't exactly young anymore. What's more his armor weighed a ton and his body ached from lugging it about. He hoped the Lannisters charging on the other side of the hill were just as exhausted. 'Bastards probably all have horses, the fuckers. Hey!' "You!" he shouted over at the messenger on the garron. "Come here!"_

_The man trotted his pony over. "Milord?"_

"_Off! I'm taking your horse!" he commanded. '_Rank has its privileges.'

_The man looked unhappy but hopped down nonetheless._

_It took Sean three tries after he slid his sword into its scabbard but he finally hauled his middle aged arse up into the saddle. He spurred the beast to trot ahead of his men and reach the rocky spur at the crest of the hill first. "Jesus!" he swore in disbelief. The slope splayed out before him was a seething, confused, roiling mass of bodies; at least those bodies that weren't already lying dead or mortally wounded on the chewed up, blood stained turf. 'Hope you're happy George, you sick fuck,' he thought. War, real war, not the thing of heroic movies and thrilling novels was definitely not glorious._

_Spying on the intertwined groups of men hewing away at each other atop a long line of dead bodies, the untrained eye of not Ned could barely tell which side was which side, let alone who was who. He at least felt good that there were surprisingly few Lannisters still on horseback. A few here, a few there, but only one large mass, maybe five hundred of them, slowly riding down the intertwined brawling lines sniffing about for any weak spot or hole to charge through. Gold flashed brightly off one of the Westerlander's breast plates. "Tywin," he snarled. _

_At last, his crew of doughty, leg driven Umbermen slowly started gathering about him after finally finishing their long climb. "Any suggestions?" he asked, totally at a loss what to do._

"_Wait fer dem herse ta charge ands hope we've time ta hits'em hard," a man bleeding from the neck, who might have been a sergeant, suggested when no one else seemed willing to say anything._

"_There are twice as many of them," he pointed out._

"_Well whats about t'em," a squirrelly eyed man said through his crookedly perched helmet._

"_Who, man? Who?" Sean shouted._

"_T'archers, milord," squirrel eye said._

"_Hunh?"_

"_Theys is guardin ta noble bounty."_

_Sean's head snapped to either edge of the battlefield, where the tree line set the boundaries of the fight. How did he miss them? Several hundred hunkered about peering around tree trunks at the chaos out on open ground. "Gods damn them!" he howled. "You! You!" he shouted, pointing at the sergeant and the squirrel. "Go bring those men into the fight," and he gestured towards the nearer group of bowmen, "no matter what! Or I'll give them and you to the Boltons to flay!"_

_The pair scurried away to belay his threat._

"_The rest of you stay here until I return!" Then off the actor rode toward the further tree line. Nearing them several score archers stepped out into the open to greet him. "Come on, come on!" he cried, whirlwinding his arm to encourage them to move._

"_Milord?!" they shouted back in confusion._

"_I need you in the fight!"_

"_We're out of arrows, milord." A few protested nervously._

"_You've knives and short swords, no?"_

"_Aye, many of us," some agreed hesitantly._

"_And there's plenty of weapons to be taken off the wounded and dead. Now come!" he demanded._

"_But the prisoners, milord; we can't just let them go!" one disputed vigorously and almost all nodded in firm agreement._

_Realization dawned on him. These prisoners were knights and lordlings; ransoms enough to keep a city of smallfolk in wine and quim for a lifetime. His stomach threatened to spew on him. 'Gods, this is Agincourt and I'm fucking Henry V!' "Kill them!" he commanded, praying that in fact the ends did justify the means._

_The archers looked aghast at the thought of losing such wealth. "Milord!" most cried in protest._

"_You won't have a ransom to collect if those shites overrun us!" he bellowed, vigorously waiving an arm at the madness below. "Now kill them!" he demanded._

_A horn blew!_

_Sean's head snapped around. Tywin Lannister appeared at last to have found a satisfactory gap to assault. He turned back. "I'll give you one minute to kill the French bastards and five to find me in the line. Old Gods help you if you fail, for I'll be waiting at Hell's gate to feast on your souls!" And with that he brutally tugged on the reins to his slight garron and turned around to charge back to his waiting Umbermen._

_As he rode, the brief speech he would give his loyal banners, perhaps his last speech ever, flowed easily into his brain: 'Then my friends, then, unto the breach we shall charge to drive them away or close the wall up with our Northern dead. When the blast of war blows in our ears; then imitate the unchained giant and the direwolf. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguse fair nature with hard favour'd rage. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide …'_

* * *

The single file line of two hundred lords, knights, and trusted men-at-arms shuffling down the narrow winding stair case of the nondescript house created a muffled, but constant clanging of steel and iron as they slowly worked themselves lower and lower into Aegon's hill. The secret passageway originated in the bedroom of a small but fashionable house just two streets over from the southwest facing of the Red Keep's outer curtain wall. The house was in fact a whorehouse, but surprisingly one not owned by Peter Baelished Industries, LTD; and thus not a property already confiscated under not Ned's Asset Forfeiture Plan implemented promptly after the taking of King's Landing. Amusingly, the current management, well compensated for the disruption to their night's business, had had no knowledge of the hidden entrance to their Premium Players' suite.

Ser Davos' trolling for information amongst the haunts of his smuggler's days had fortuitously dredged up an old hag, one who as a youth had been the maid to the lovely daughter of some minor Crownlands house. One of the Hands in the early days of Aegon V's reign had taken this fair lady as his paramour and ensconced her in this townhouse since it contained a secret passage into the Red Keep through which he could visit her unseen from prying, blackmailing eyes. When her mistress unexpectedly perished from the sweating sickness, the hag, knowing that her silence on the Hand's affair would inevitably be bought with her life, fled with what coins and valuable trinkets of her lady's she could quickly scrounge. And for the next fifty years she had lived a quiet, comfortable, unmarked life on the edges of the stews and slums of King's Landing.

Men behind Sean, from his place in the back half of the line, started cursing. The Blackfish, walking just ahead of not Ned and carrying a torch, paused and turned to look back at the commotion. "Careful!" the actor shouted and bobbed his head aside from the flaming torch head that threatened to singe his face.

"Sorry," Ser Brynden replied with an embarrassed smile as he quickly jerked the torch backward.

"Someone comes," Roose Bolton said in a barely audible voice.

Head safe from flame, Sean turned his head to look back too. "That much is certain, Lord Roose," he said sarcastically, peering up into the bloodless man's pale milky eyes.

"Come on then!" Rickard Karstark turned to call out sharply from the gloom in front of the Lord of Winterfell, eager for the rest of the line to keep up with him as he sought his too long delayed vengeance against Torrhen and Eddard's killer.

The Leech Lord turned too, but in the opposite direction, and hissed in his soft voice that surprisingly carried far back up the twisting staircase, "Lord Stark awaits the messenger."

'Fuck me! How does he know?' Sean thought angrily.

"Father?" Robb's voice called up from the murk below.

"Best keep going Robb," he answered. "Grey Wind can't be happy in here. We'll catch up in a minute or two."

"Very well," the boy replied and squeezed past to continue on.

"'bout time," Lord Rickard's muffled, disgruntled voice came up from below.

"I envy you your children, Lord Stark," announced Roose Bolton, who had chosen to stay close to his liege.

'And I'll see your bastard, Ramsay, dead,' the actor thought.

"And I congratulate you on your lady wife expecting another," the Leech Lord continued in his usual whisper.

"How did you?!" Sean asked with both surprise and heat.

"Have you thought of asking his Grace to become his Master of Whisperers, Lord Roose?" the Blackfish japed.

Roose Bolton ignored the quip. "News and rumors travels quickly through your army, Lord Stark; especially anything having to do about you, our Old Gods given savior," he said without evident irony.

Sean swallowed hard, finding something in the tone of 'Old Gods given savior' deeply unsettling. His fear of the man made the actor angry. 'The pale faced shite wants to play games? I can fight fire with fire,' he thought. "And what of children for you, Lord Roose? We're nearly of an age. There's still plenty of time for you to sire a true heir for the Dreadfort on your Frey bride once she arrives. This King, I think, with his sense of honor, is not inclined to legitimize a bastard; that's all you have left isn't it?" he stabbed viciously. "Let alone one who would inherit the title for such an illustrious house as yours."

"Only a greenseer 'tis said can foresee the length of winter and the depth of snow it will leave, Lord Stark; I shall consider your wisdom on the matter," the Leech Lord pronounced coolly, not obviously rising to the bait.

"My Lord," a familiar voice called out from a dark figure muscling his way down through the gloom of the passageway past the line of warriors clogging it.

"Ser Olyvar," not Ned replied quietly to the emerging figure of his aide, happy to have his strange conversation with Roose Bolton interrupted. "And?"

"Your pardon, Lord Bolton," Walder Frey's eighteenth son said, crowding in and around on the slighter form of the Leech Lord. "'Tis done, my Lord," he whispered proudly.

Sean saw Roose's eyebrows twitch at the news. He ignored the crazed skin flayer. "And you're sure you'll find it?" he asked cryptically.

The knight nodded. "I came here as a squire to my brothers for the tourney held for you as the new Hand, my Lord; and one morning I toured the keep. I can find the place," he said with youthful certainty and enthusiasm.

"Good," the actor said firmly.

"Dark words, Dark wings?" the Lord of Dreadfort queried. "Who shouldn't hear of his Grace's taking of the Iron Throne this night?" he asked with quiet amiability.

Sean felt his balls shrink at the pale man uncannily hitting on his stratagem in one.

"Unusually well informed, indeed," the Blackfish, whom not Ned had shared the whats of Olyvar's missions but not the whys, harrumphed.

"If Lord Stark trusts me to be by his side at the fall of the Red Keep, then I thought it best to learn all of my lord's plans, so I might aide him should he need me," Roose Bolton said a tad too reasonably.

"I trust you, Lord Roose," not Ned murmured, turning back around in order to continue his descent into the bowels beneath the Red Keep and more importantly to hide the shudder of fear that quaked within his Earthly armor. "I trust you." 'Just as far as I can throw you, you whispering fuck head.'


	29. Chapter 28

BAM! BAM! BAM!

"What's the problem?"

Men were packed tooth to jowl in the tight tunnel, waiting to go around one last bend from around which the far far too loud hammering sound echoed out of.

"Door's jammed."

"Probably hasn't been used in decades."

"If only more Hands had been interested in whores."

"Should've brought the Greatjon, he'd smash it in right quick."

"He's too big to squeeze down this hole."

"Hey, that's what the wife says about me."

Sean shared in the laughter that followed the unseen man's jape. The narrow space was uncomfortably close and the air fetid, stifling; not to mention very, very dark. Nerves were fraying from the tension. The actor felt his own belly tightening, like opening night on stage. But part of him took refuge in that tonight's experience could never be as horrible as his first battle.

* * *

"_Stop. Stop." Sean muttered with alarm, instantly losing all thought of his Henry V, Act III, Scene I speech. Ahead, his meager reserve of hard, foul Northmen were moving downhill without him. He pressed the already winded garron faster across the uneven, flinty soil of the hill's slope, curving to catch up with them. But they were angling way from the actor turned warlord, tired feet slowly picking up momentum as they desperately charged towards the Lannisters starting to break through a widening seam as best Sean could discern between the longaxes of Barrowton and the metal fists of the Deepwood. He wouldn't make it time. 'Would it have even mattered? What can one man do?' he thought futilely, envisioning the end; even his untrained eye could see the Northern forces were stretched too far._

_Anger and shame began to swell within him. He should have ordered them all to retreat to the Twins in the first place and used not Rich's certain victories to leverage some sort of peace. Better that than disaster and ruin. Sean realized he'd been fooling himself these last two weeks that an actor, not a seasoned general, not a god damned real life hero, could single handedly rewrite history. And what a history at that; a dark, twisted, brutal, stupid, pointless thing written by George's bloody hand. "What hubris! What utter pride!" he spat in a fury of disgust. "Only vaulting ambition, which o'er leaps itself; And falls on th' other!" he roared._

'_Th'Others, how fucking ironic. If Shakespeare'd ever known about these he'd have shit himself when he wrote that. And I thought I could bloody stop'em. Stop them all. Ha!' he bemoaned. And now the doughty, ribald, exhausted, loyal men of the Last Hearth finally began to stumble head long into the narrow front of warhorses pressing against the thinnest spot in the tattered Northern line. A horse squealed in terror. A knight fell. Then another. The Westerlanders advance seemed to stall. Hope … no. A trumpet blew, da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAAAA! From within the confused mass some unseen standard bearer shook an enormous golden lion crouched on a field of blood high in the sky until in answer to the summons a veritable mountain, the only thing larger than an unchained giant, plummeted to earth wreaking havoc._

_Through the swirls of red and gold figures a titan glad only in drab grey hard used steel plated bulled his even bigger horse to the tip of the attacking wedge. One handed Gregor Clegane swung a greatsword like it was no heavier than a twig. A head flew through the air. An entire torso dropped to the ground while a pair of legs remained upright. The line shifted, bulged, and the enemy started to grind forward again. More and more Northermen tumbled down lifeless or maimed. The makeshift barricade of flesh and blood collapsed. A magnificent figure in deep crimson armor and a gold cloth cape rode through the growing hole practically untouched._

_Instinctively Sean turned the little mountain horse straight towards where Tywin Lannister led huge destriers in trampling over his men and slaying those still left standing with remorseless steel. His Men! His Dying Men! He owed it to them to be there with them at the end. He clenched the sword tighter and mercilessly drove spurs into the garron's already bleeding flanks. Closer and closer he rode. And through a rage mottled face Sean began to speak words he'd memorized long before he e'er became an actor. Words honoring the pointless chivalry of home, of England. "Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade!' 'Charge for the guns!' he said: into the valley of Death rode the six hundred," he began to recite.  
_

_He came upon the first. A thick axe head thundered out to split him in twain. The little garron somehow found within its sturdy self enough pluck left to dodge a step further away from the side of the foeman's bulkier mount. The actor ducked low, just avoiding the decapitating strike, and jabbed out his own sharp steel, feeling the slight hesitation as the ringmail barding on the horse's side resisted and then yielded. Blood splashed out as Sean yanked back his blade. "'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew someone had blunder'd: theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die," he chanted, though the tumult drowned out the noble sentiments from even his own ears._

_CLANG!_

_Sword met sword and just like that the two armor clad warriors swept past each other. "… storm'd at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell rode the six hundred."_

_A dismounted red cloak stood up groggily from over a northerner he'd just dispatched, gory swathed dagger clutched in gauntleted hand. Sean brought his sword back around, striking a glancing blow off the unsuspected bastard's helm. BONK! At least the bastard got knocked back to his knees. "Flash'd all their sabres bare, flash'd as they turn'd in air, sabring the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wonder'd," he screamed, tears streaking down his face as he rode to his doom._

_CRACK!_

_An ungodly weight pitched into no longer quite Sean's chest, catapulting him out of the saddle of his wee beast of burden. He crashed to earth in an aching jumble. Before he knew anything a horse hoof clipped his shoulder, flipping him over again. Then something drilled him in the back, pinning him down. Yet on and on he continued to mutter in a pained, dazed whisper, "cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon behind them volley'd and thunder'd; storm'd at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell …" He swallowed blood and mucus and dust. "… they that had fought so well came thro' the jaws of Death back from the mouth of Hell, all that was left of them, …" His eyelids flickered. His eyelids closed._

* * *

CRASH!

"Hurry!" voices cried eagerly.

Sean didn't think it possible, but the pressure on him from behind increased even more at the promised relief with the exit being breached. It took nearly five minutes for the one hundred and fifty or so men in front of him to push their way out of confinement. Not Ned upon squeezing out the disguised door in tandem with another found himself in a storage room; the floor wet with wine from the broken, over turned barrel that had been blocking the secret entrance. A man-at-arms holding a torch stood by the door out of the store room impatiently grumbling, "come on, come on," over and over again. The actor went where he was directed.

He followed a corridor past door after door, the stomping of those ahead of him and the occasional flicker of torch or lantern light showing where he needed to go. He turned a corner and found another torch sporting man left stationed to guide the haphazard procession. This one pointed and shoved people through an archway which led into a stairwell. Three entire upward revolutions Sean made until he broke out above ground into the circular hall forming the first floor of the tower they were apparently in.

"Step ahead, step through," a third man at arms said, blocking the stairs that went up higher into the tower. "The rest of you are to follow the King," he announced.

When Ser Olyvar came out of the lower stairs, not Ned grabbed his aide's arm and pulled him over to that obstructed set of stairs. "This one goes up too," he ordered.

"Milord?" the man-at-arms questioned.

"He goes," Sean insisted, drawing forth his most commanding Ned look.

"Come on then," the man muttered unhappily, stepping aside enough to let Olyvar through.

* * *

_The ringing in his ears wouldn't stop. His eyes opened. Blackness everywhere. Something numbing and persistent drove against his face. Icy discomfort seeped up into him from what he lay on. The discomfort began to focus his mind. He realized he should be in more pain, much more pain, than this. After a while, he noted the ringing was actually two separate yet strangely complimentary parts. A constant wind and …_

_"When can their glory fade?  
O the wild charge they made!  
All the world wondered."_

_A pair of voices recited the verse; opposites, but in harmony._

_"Honour the charge they made,  
Honour the Light Brigade,  
Noble six hundred."_

_Tennyson ended. The frigid wind remained. He knew not what any of it meant._

"_Get up mate," a vaguely familiar voice called out at last. "You're not dead yet."_

"_Yeah, don't prove those Internet trolls right," came a second voice, an American accented one._

_He pushed down with his hands, pressing them into rock hard ice covered by a thin layer of gravel. The darkness didn't seem quite so dark now. He stood. "Whoooa!" he yelled. Vertigo gripped him. He wobbled at the edge of a great fucking height. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him back, and turned him around._

"_Good to see you again Sean," said one a ways off standing close by a torch._

_He knew that face!_

"_How's that armor working out for you?" chuckled the closer one, hand still on him, but whose face was blocked from the torch light by the actor's presence._

"_Clint? Harry?" he asked in amazement._

_They shrugged their shoulders._

_Sean stared around. They stood on a frozen ice path wide enough to drive a lorry down. Empty space floated on either side. Something darker, lower, and very massive could be seen far away in the distance. It might have been the ground. "Is this the Wall?"_

"_If you like," Harry answered._

"_Or is this happening all in my head?"_

"_Who the hell cares?" responded Clint._

"_Why are you talking to me?"_

_Clint laughed. "Were you expecting a three eyed raven instead?"_

"_Oh give the man a break, he's been through a rough patch," chastised Harry in a light tone._

_Clint snorted, "Which is why I asked, 'how's that armor working out for you?'"_

"_Not so well as I'd hoped," he answered with sarcastic understatement._

"_Fuck that, nothing wrong with it." And Clint tapped him hard on the chest, causing the steel plate to sing._

"_Which is why we are wondering why you are here," Harry commented. "Don't you want to live?"_

"_Of course I do!" Sean snapped, anger starting to warm his insides. "I'm in fucking Westeros! Do you think it's easy!?"_

"_Then choose," Harry commanded._

"_Choose bloody what!?" the actor yelled._

"_Fight or die," Clint whispered. And then the American's strong hand gave the actor a mighty shove._

_Off into the darkness he plunged, full of icy fear and fiery anger._

* * *

Sean surged out of the tower into the raw, brisk night following the mass of warriors accompanying the King. The soaring outer walls of the Red Keep, almost shadows in the darkness, rose up behind him in a V-shape while in front lay a few sparsely lit outbuildings squatting abut to a massive structure, the Great Hall; home to the Iron Throne. The Blackfish and pale Roose kept pace beside the actor, all their breaths now visible as they jogged through the chill air; while the unmistakable shape of Grey Wind, most likely accompanied by Robb, could be spotted ahead, close to the leading wave of Baratheon men-at-arms. Slowing down, the actor craned his neck to look up where he spotted an oddly shaped black mass rushing along the top of the wall in the direction, he supposed, of the main gate. Shifting his gaze he squinted the opposite way, but could discern no movement towards the towers rising out of the massive walls in the other direction, one of which had to be the Rookery. 'Godspeed Olyvar,' he prayed.

"Lord Stark, with me!" cried the King's voice through the darkness, oblivious to the carrying sound as he closed in on his bitter heart's desire.

Sean jerked his attention back closer to the earth. "Yes, your Grace. Coming," not Ned replied much more softly, dutifully quickening his pace to try and catch up to the driven, obsessed man. 'Why does he want me close?' he wondered suspiciously.

A half dozen men at arms dropped out of the rush to secure the servants in the kitchens and work shacks adjoining the outside of the Great Hall; the smallfolk were already awake in the pre-dawn hours preparing the garrisons morning meal. Then nearly fifty figures, a lad from Sheffield among them, started to slip into the monstrous sized edifice through an unguarded side door.

Inside, Sean found himself not far from the foot of the steps that separated the last forty feet of the Throne Room, the royal platform, from the rest of the length of the Great Hall. A few torches burned in brackets on the walls, sending weak flickers of light to pass through or bounce off the sweeping pillars which supported the vaulted roof high above. The actor suddenly found himself strangely curious as to what that 'thing' the Show had been named after actually looked liked.

He walked between two nearest pillars into the main room and let out a long whistle. 'Now that's a fucking Throne Of Swords!' he thought. The 'thing' was massive, a giant hunk of twisted iron and blood thirsty blades surrounding uneven steps and a dangerous perch; not an almost cute prop built on a limited budget for the sound stage. "You'd be proud, George," he whispered. Sean spied the King already up the steps and striding across the platform; approaching his destination, his Sean Bean arranged destiny. As if by secret agreement no one followed after the tall man as he took off his helm revealing the bald pate within; they all simply stood and watched him, eyes glued to see how the spectacle would unfold.

Stannis reached the base of the monument to Aegon's conquest of Westeros. Purposefully, slowly, he took each step of the Iron Throne, coming at last to stand before its seat. The Baratheon Stag turned, revealing a look of almost religious fervor on his thin, normally pinched face. With satisfaction and care he lowered himself on to Aegon's legacy. "I am the King," he pronounced grandly.

* * *

_He was face down in the dirt and something pressed into his back. He felt wind on his face. The helmet must have torn off his head in the fall. Blood trickled from some gash into an eye. He couldn't spy his sword, it certainly wasn't in his hands._

"_Raise the banner again," commanded a cold, authoritative voice._

_The weight left Sean. "Fight," he whispered._

"_Hear me roar!" men started to shout around him._

'_My dirk. I still have my dirk!' Sean scrambled to his knees, his armor barely burdening him. He looked wildly around trying to catch his bearings as his hands padded along his belt._

"_Ware!" someone cried._

_Sean pulled out near a foot of steel. Above him a man mounted on a destrier held a loft Tywin Lannister's personal banner. The actor plunged the dirk into the standard bearer's thigh. He yanked it out and stabbed again. Missed. The steel sank into the horse._

_Immediately the war trained beast turned into the source of the blow. Shifting. Hooves stomping. Massive neck arching to bring its angry face to confront its attacker._

_Something clanked off Sean's back. He had much more danger to worry about than just a ton of upset equine. Still, as he danced about to keep from being trampled he lashed out at the man-at-arms mounted above him._

_TING!_

_The metal shod base of the banner clashed against his forearm, sending the dirk flying out of his grasp. He clutched at the thick pole._

_CLANG!_

_A blade of sorts ricocheted off his shoulder. He felt another mounted presence looming up behind him. He shoved with all his strength and the wounded standard bearer gave way, letting go his grip on the banner so he wouldn't fall out of the saddle._

_Sean whipped around, dragging the crouched golden lion through the air._

_WACK!_

_He knocked some mounted knight or man-at-arms upside the head, startling him; while the trailing flag flapped across the horse's face, spooking the beast._

_He dodged backward to avoid the rearing creature._

"_You! Stark!" a voice bellowed in surprise and anger._

_Sean snapped his head around. Not twenty feet away the Old Lion in crimson and gold bestrode a horse._

"_WINTERFELLLLLLLLLLL!" He screamed. And as if someone else took hold of his body, Sean lowered the banner and charged with it point first straight at Tywin Lannister._

_KA-TANG!_

_The Lord of Casterly Rock thick thighs tightened on his destrier's flanks. He dropped his sword and fluttered his arms like a bird trying to take flight, desperate to regain his balance._

_Without a thought Sean let go the banner and ran straight to his foe's side. He grabbed at spur and boot, lifting, lifting, lifting. The Old Lion toppled._

_Sean bent over to pick up the fallen gold hued sword and came back up roaring "WINTERFELLLLLLLL!" again._

_Suddenly a mad scramble developed as Westerland knights and men-at-arms scrambled off their mounts to try and retrieve their fallen lord. Sean lashed out with his stolen blade again and again and again at the gathering foemen. Still, discretion was the better part of valor, so he fell back as quickly as he could from the developing red and gold scrum toward friendlier colors._

_Haroooooooooooooooooooo!_

_Haroooooooooooooooooooo!_

_Haroooooooooooooooooooo!_

_More and more warhorns blew._

_Along the entire length of the inter-joined lines a visceral moan arose. Metal creaked and clanged and both halves of the serpentine beast on either side of the cut took a halting step northward, down the slope, down toward the foot of the hill, down toward the Lannister camp._

_From seemingly nowhere grey and brown and green clad men of the North rushed past Sean and flung themselves at the knot of Westerlanders withdrawing on foot with their liege back through the gap. Off their mounts, the heavily armored lordlings, knights, and chosen men-at-arms suddenly found themselves at the disadvantage from their equally tired, but more limber opponents._

_The Mountain tried to lead a countercharge until his hamstrung horse collapsed under him and the titan in the three black dogs surcoat was swarmed under by unchained giants, mailed fists, and long axes until it barked no more._

_DA-da Da-da Da-daaaaaaaaaa!_

_The line shifted and moved northward again. And again._

_The actor found a riderless horse. He grabbed the reins and pulled himself, barely, into the saddle. With a bit of height he could see figures in leather baring short swords and hand axes and simple knives pouring out of the woods to take the Westerlanders in the flanks._

_DA-da Da-da Da-daaaaaaaaaa!_

_Haroooooooooooooooooooo!_

_The Northmen's primeval screams started to take on a unified shout. "Lord Ned! Lord Ned! Lord Ned!"_

_The pushed northward again._

_And then the Westerlanders cracked. In ones and twos, then by the dozen, they turned and ran._

_Sean whopped and twirled his Lannister forged sword and screamed as the foe fled. The route was on and he had a front row seat to watch his triumph._

* * *

"Just cause your bony arse sits on the throne, doesn't make you King!" a sarcastic voice suddenly shouted out from the far end of the Great Hall. Heads spun in shock to spy the source of the blasphemy. Jaime Lannister stood cockily amongst a score and a half of red cloaked and gold cloaked men. "I ought to know, I sat there once, didn't I Stark!"

"Charge!" bellowed the Blackfish, breaking the spell of arrogance and superiority cast by the Kingslayer.

"Die, Kingslayer!" screamed Rickard Karstark, being the first to charge.

Grey Wind hollowed his own challenge.

The opposing forces, swords, axes, and polearms drawn, swept towards each other and in seconds the sound of steel beating on steel filled the room.

Sean hung back, holding a long sword in sweaty hands, not eager to rush into the deadly melee no matter how well protected his body was. Soon the first body fell, arm near chopped off in a flash by not Ned's former prisoner. 'How the fuck did he happen to be here?!' he wondered in amazement; quickly followed by, 'I wish I'd have brought a shield!' as he heard the twang of bowstring and the "woosh" of bolts.

"Lord Stark, with me!" shouted the King for the second time in less than five minutes as he trotted past not Ned toward the fighting.

"Your Grace, let your loyal banners win this," the actor pleaded.

"Robert won the crown with his hammer, I would have none think I did any less," Stannis proclaimed proudly, not stopping. And soon the Stag was busy chopping away at a gold cloak who did carry a shield.

"Shit," Sean grumbled, knowing what he had to do in spite of his fears. In a moment not Ned was beside the King, hacking away for his life and that of Westeros.

The pair kept the guardsman occupied until Sean forced him to turn his shield so far aside that Stannis could skewer through the chainlinks in his armpit, rupturing arteries, muscles. and a lung.

Something rushed towards the King. Sean instinctively threw his hip into the exposed Stannis, knocking the Stag aside, while not Ned interposed his blade in the way of the Kingslayer's stroke.

K-TANG-tang-tang!

The actor's clammy hand nearly lost hold of his sword, spark's flying off it where Jaime Lannister's long dark blade screeched across it.

With ridiculous speed the Kingslayer brought the grey, smoky colored greatsword he swung back around in a two handed grip at not Ned' head.

Sean desperately whipped his arm around in a circle to drive his sword down atop his foe's, disrupting the Lion's aim just enough. Metal sang as chains popped off the base of the aventail resting on his neck and shoulders as the blade swept past him. 'Get inside, get inside!' he screamed to himself. Not Ned charged the Kingslayer, praying to get inside the man's reach and drive the point of his sword into the sister fucker's ball bag.

But Jaime Lannister was far too seasoned for such an obvious ploy and shifted his hips to avoid the thrust. He dropped his nearer hand off the thick greatsword to slam a forearm into not Ned's shoulder, sending him backward. "Taste cold Ice, Stark; Winter is coming!" the Lion shouted with insane glee. One handed the blood thirsty and ridiculously strong golden one flicked Valyrian steel right at the Lord of Winterfell's face.

Sean jerked his head back from the incoming blow and felt a prick in the soft flesh below his left eye. He stumbled back further still, off balance.

The Kingslayer, driven by vengeance for his father and brother, now ignored the King and relentlessly came after the Lord of Winterfell. Conveniently for the master swordsman, despite the ebb and flow of melee in the Great hall, no other fighters got in between the Lion and the Direwolf.

The actor desperately back pedaled; trying to keep his balance centered and sword raised in the semblance of a defense posture he'd first learned a decade earlier in New Zealand.

Tank. Tank. Tank.

The Lion used his blazing speed and the tip of oversized Ice to play with not Ned's sword. "Is that fear in your eyes Stark? From the man who cannot die?" he scoffed while driving his hated enemy back, back, back … almost to the foot of the stairs.

"Go fuck your slut Cersei!" he shot back. Then before the actor could blink, the Kingslayer beat his blade to the side and Ice's razor sharp Valyrian point punched into his breast plate. Sean gasped, anticipating tremendous pain and death.

Boink!

The Westeros magical steel bounced off Sean's Earthly armor. Jaime Lannister's eyes opened wide, startled by the unanticipated outcome.

'Yes!" not Ned thought exultantly. 'I'm bloody invulnerable!' Sean's blade slashed back at the surprised Lion. But not fast enough for the Kingslayer to back his blade up and take part of the attack. Still, the actor felt the edge of his sword take some sort of bite from the crazed bastard's left arm.

The Lion grunted in acknowledgement of the blow, but it barely slowed his response, a straight thrust back at the Wolf's midsection.

Now it was Sean's turn to shift his hips. The blade lightly glanced off his impenetrable side as again he stepped forward. But with his sword arm back he was too close to try and swing, so he aimed a kick at Kingslayer's happy sack. 'Missed!'

The blow nevertheless caught Jaime in the thigh and he staggered backward.

Sean feeling indestructible recklessly followed.

Something caught the corner of the Kingslayer's eye and for a second his head turned. Off balance and with Ice already behind his head, he stabbed out backward with impossible precision at some greybeard wearing the Karstark white sunburst, smoky grey steel running through the charging man's eye.

'Now!' Sean's already partially raised sword took a chop at the Lannister's now exposed neck. A dark metallic blur whirred impossibly fast towards him. Instinctively the actor screamed, "Nooooooo!"

Thunk.

A hand fell to the Throne Room's floor. Through the crimson spurting in gushes from his wrist, Sean Bean morbidly noticed his fingers jerking and wiggling on the sword pommel. 'Niko is supposed to lose a hand, not me! Not me!' part of himself thought in stunned wonderment. "AAAAAAAAHHHHHGGGGGGGGG!" The actor realized the screaming he heard was his own, though he had yet to feel any pain from his maiming.

"Die Stark!" the Kingslayer swore.

The Lion launched another lightning strike at the now defenseless actor cum Lord of Winterfell. Sean flinched and stumbled backward, turning his body away from the mortal strike as he fell over.

CLANG!

The Valyrian steel edge of Ice struck hard against the side of not Ned's movie studio inspired breast plate. Sparks flew. He grunted hitting the ground, feeling hard jolts from both the fall and the Kingslayer's immensely strong blow reverberating through the metal, across his thick doublet, and deep in his bones where it rattled.

A wolf howled.

Jaime Lannister stepped smartly back into an en garde position as something huge and furry leapt over the prostrate actor. Sean looked down at his torso and giggled; Harry and Clint's magical gift was a bit dented and scarred, but still whole after Ice's ferocious assault. 'Bastards should've given me magic vambraces and gauntlets too,' he thought with a whimper.

The stone pillars rising through the flickering torch light into the dark recesses of the Throne Room's ceiling started to pitch and swirl about Sean. Nausea swept through him. The flag stone floor tilted and spun. In the distance he heard Stannis' deep, bitter voice pierce loudly, harshly through the din of sword strokes and screams to demand their surrender to the true King. He lifted up his shattered right forearm and clutched at it weakly with his left hand, trying to stem the flow of his precious life's blood. "Not supposed to end this away," he moaned.

"Lord Stark. Lord Stark," a voice whispered impossibly loud.

He could hardly see a thing through the eddy of shadows dancing before his eyes. Then he focused and spied moon white Roose peering down at him through a small gap in the dark clouds above. 'Treacherous fuck head. I kept trying to kill you, you bastard, and now it's me,' he thought wretchedly. Sean watched as the Leech Lord, holding a small flaying knife in his hand, reached down towards him.

The vampire pale beast touched not Ned and where before there had been no pain, only shock and merciful numbness; now fire scorched up his arm and then flowing up to fill his chest with blistering agony. Snot flew from his nostrils as he writhed in torment, body flailing about on fiery tendrils mercilessly tugged by this ashen, bloodless demon from the pits of Hell. The tears and blood flowing off his face failed to quench the inferno raging within him. His limited vision shrank even further until only the happy, evil little smile of Roose Bolton filled the eyes of Sean Bean, husband, father, Yorshireman, actor, failed savior, and Internet cliché. 'God damn you George, you sick fu …'

* * *

**BOOK 1: Sean Lends a Hand - FINIS!**


End file.
